


I Know A Girl

by CheapLemonIceLolly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/F, F/M, Pining, Rule 63, Sexism, Women in the NHL, background Dylan Strome/Mitch Marner, soft boys in love only this time they're girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/pseuds/CheapLemonIceLolly
Summary: “Yeah, you’re right,” she says, “it’ll mean some changes for you guys, and for whatever teams pick us up.  I think I’m worth it, though.”  Dylan reaches across under the table, out of sight of everyone, and squeezes her hand.  It makes Connor feel daring and grounded at the same time as she laces their fingers together, squeezes back.  “I think you think I am too.”





	I Know A Girl

**Author's Note:**

> I started out trying to make the timeline accurate, and then the plot got away from me so now the entire 2016-17 season schedule is pretty much made up. The Oilers DID play the Yotes on Valentine’s Day after Dylan had been sent back to juniors (*sob*), but it happened in Edmonton and that didn’t work for my plot! Some other things like the incident with Manning and the Hayley Wickenheiser tribute really happened but not in the manner or order they do in this story, so prepare to leave your knowledge of reality at the door! I don’t know man, artistic license. I made two of them girls. Just go with it.
> 
> Sajee and hmasfatty and holmesbody are awesome for their reassurance that this ever expanding labour of love was worth it :D I have? A lot of feelings? About women?? And also about Dylan Strome??? Also all credit to hmasfatty for the twitter handle @TooManyMen, as well as thanks for all the women’s hockey research!
> 
> Bonus material and a couple of citations in the end notes. Title is from the song of the same name by the Preatures.

When Connor realises she’s in love with her best friend, it’s about ten seconds into Dylan telling her she hooked up with a boy.  Connor will probably remember this moment for the rest of her life, standing at the sink in a dingy rink washroom braiding her hair before practice and feeling jealousy slam into her like a hit she never saw coming.  
  
“But you hate Marner,” she says, feeling winded, and immediately regrets how whiny her voice comes out.  Dylan doesn’t seem to notice.  
  
“Nah, he’s growing on me,” she shrugs.  “Kind of annoying, but you know.  Good hands.”  She waggles her eyebrows at Connor in the mirror and Connor feels like she might throw up.  
  
“Oh,” says Connor, and then, trying to sound casual, “So are you like...a thing now?”  She concentrates on getting her braid as tight and flat as possible so she won’t be tempted to glance at Dylan in the mirror, and it almost works.  Almost.  
  
Dylan snorts, too wrapped up in the losing battle with her own hair to notice Connor looking at her.  “In his dreams,” she says dismissively.  “He probably weighs less than I do.  If I wanted a guy who was four inches shorter than me I could date, like, a soccer player or something.  Why, you after my sloppy seconds now, Davo?”  
  
“Ew, no,” Connor wrinkles her nose.  Dylan laughs and loops a long arm around her neck, pulling her in close.  She smells like coconut shampoo and rink soap, practical and familiar and a little bit sweet, and it’s unexpectedly dizzying.  
  
“Of course not,” she says.  “No time for boys when you’re busy becoming the girl Sidney Crosby, eh?”  She plants a smacking kiss on Connor’s cheek and heads out of the washroom, grinning.  
  
Sure, Connor thinks, lifting a hand to her cheek.  Her heart is pounding.  No time for boys.

 

*  


 

She hates being called “the girl Sidney Crosby”.  Crosby’s the best player in the world, obviously, so it’s not like it isn’t flattering, and of course she admires him, sees him as a yardstick to measure her own career against, whatever.  But she’s not aiming to be the best  _ girl _ player in the world when she makes the NHL.  Crosby’s a benchmark she intends to surpass eventually, and she wonders if when that day comes they’ll be calling him “the boy Connor McDavid”.  Probably not.  
  
Of course Dylan knows all that, she’s just being an asshole when she says that sort of thing, but she’s not the only one who says it.  Reporters particularly love that line.  
  
“Sid, what do you think of the comparisons people are making between you and Connor McDavid?”  
  
Probably a normal person wouldn't notice the minute flicker of annoyance that crosses Crosby’s face, the way his smile comes a fraction of a second too late and somewhat forced. Connor’s been learning how to answer difficult questions since she was small, though, so she notices.  
  
“Yeah, she’s a really talented kid,” Crosby says out of Connor’s iPad with something almost approximating warmth. “I think she’s going to be fun to watch.”  
  
It doesn’t escape her notice that that’s not really an answer to the question.  
  
“So does that mean you think women should be allowed to play in the NHL?  That girls should be eligible for the draft?”  
  
He smiles, blandly polite, and says: “That’s not for me to decide, but I wish her all the best.”  
  
“Geez,” says Dylan, lounging on the couch with her head in Connor’s lap. “He wishes  _ you  _ all the best? It's like I don't even exist.” She doesn't sound all that cut up about it, but Connor scritches her fingers through Dylan's curls anyway.  A small part of her feels a little guilty about the soft, pleased noise she gets in response, like maybe she should stop touching Dylan so much now she knows it’s not just normal friendly touching and Dylan doesn’t, but she doesn’t quite feel guilty enough to stop.  That’d probably just make things weird, anyway.  This way nobody needs to know except her.  
  
“Not like he’s that supportive of you either, though, I guess,” says Dylan, closing her eyes.  
  
Connor gets it, is the thing; Crosby’s answer is very professional and non-controversial.  She can’t help wishing he’d go to bat for her anyway, though, just a little.  It’s all very nice for him to meet Connor for PR things and shake her hand and give out little soundbites about how she’s extremely talented and he looks forward to seeing her future, but it’s pretty evident he hates the comparison as much as she does, maybe more.  He thinks it’s less flattering for him than it is for her, obviously.  He doesn’t want to give the media any more reasons to associate them with each other.  
  
It hurts a little.  Takes some of the shine off her childhood hero worship.  But it fuels her ambition as well.  
  
Picking the number 97 was kind of an homage to him in the beginning, a nod to the fact she was born ten years after her childhood idol, to the obvious similarities in their game.  It was maybe a little cocky, too.  But it’s become a challenge now, even if she’s the only one who knows it is.  It means anything you can do, I can do better, faster, earlier and younger.  It means she’s going to do everything he did but...what’s that thing people say?  Backwards and in high heels.  
  
(Connor doesn’t wear heels, her ankles and knees are too precious and she’s already six foot tall at seventeen, but it’s an  _ image _ , isn’t it?)  
  
She strokes Dylan’s hair, letting it curl soft around her fingers, and says, “That’s fine.  We don’t need him.”

 

*

 

It’d been a fight being allowed to enter the OHL Priority Selection, her status exceptional in more ways than one, but that was just a warmup for the main event in 2015.  She’s got so many people behind her, but it’s not the same as having other girls in it  _ with _ her, so when Dylan followed her brother into the O using Connor as a precedent - and the Otters decided their girl experiment had gone well enough to justify taking on another one - Connor was so relieved at the thought of not having to do it alone she latched on to her immediately.  
  
It’s not just that any more, though, the two girls against the world thing.  Dylan is funny and easygoing where Connor’s always been too serious and a little awkward; she sings (badly) on the bus, chirps Connor when the boys seem too scared to, talks too much and too fast where Connor is quiet and careful with her words, laughs hard and loud and often.  Connor hadn’t even realised there was a divide between her and the guys on the team until Dylan bridged it, but that feels like a relief too; she’s easier to like and likes other people more easily than Connor, and brings her out of the shell she hadn’t noticed she was in, makes her feel more likeable than she is naturally.  
  
Maybe that explains why it took her so long to realise her feelings for Dylan weren’t exactly friendly.  She’s used to most other girls her age being perfectly nice but not at all interested in the sport that’s basically her whole life, which is to say not at all interested in her, because she doesn’t really have anything else to talk about.  She’s nervous of seeking out other hockey girls because she’s worried they might resent her for not wanting to play with them any more, even though it’s the  _ seriousness _ of elite sports she’s drawn to, not playing with  _ men _ .  If she had her way, the O and the NHL both would be full of women and the boys would have to play on practice rinks to tiny audiences and get paid peanuts.  
  
Anyway, she figured it was normal to become kind of obsessed when she met a girl who loved hockey as much as she does, who didn’t think she was crazy or woman-hating for wanting to play in the NHL, who was so easy to talk to Connor wanted to do it even when she didn’t want to talk to anyone else.  Even when she’s tired or hurting or disappointed by a shitty loss, she’ll let Dylan babble at her until she feels better, and it always  _ does _ make her feel better eventually.    
  
When Connor broke her hand Dylan mocked her for being terrible at fighting, then bought a two dollar drug store lipstick even though she never wears makeup, just so she could leave a big neon pink kiss mark on Connor’s cast.  On the list of times-Connor-should-have-known, the woozy rushing feeling she got watching Dylan bend over her hand, long curls tumbling over her shoulder and lashes fanned soft and dark across her cheeks, is probably number one.  The way she couldn’t help smiling every time she saw the bubblegum coloured lip print  on the back of her wrist afterwards, even once the cast was filthy and the lipstick had smudged into a near-unrecognisable shape, is right up there as well.

 

*

 

“We’re not asking for affirmative action or special treatment,” her dad says, for what feels like the one hundredth time in the one hundredth meeting.  “No girl is going to get drafted who isn’t just as good as the boys; if anything she’ll have to be better.  We just want Connor, and,” he nods over at the Stromes, “any other girl who wants it, to have the same chance to be considered that boys will get who don’t have half the ability she does.”  
  
Connor and Dylan are side by side in the middle of the giant conference table, sandwiched in between their parents and their agents, with their chairs pushed as close together as they could get them without looking weird.  The NHL bigwigs across from them feel like a particularly ugly opposing team, ready to play dirty, but Connor’s not worried; she has the best people she can imagine on her side.  Connor can feel Dylan’s foot tapping nervously under the table.  
  
“If nobody wants to draft them, then they won’t, and you’re off the hook,” says Dylan’s mom, with the frank ruthlessness of a woman who’s raised three hockey kids and already sent one off to the NHL.  She can say nobody might draft them because she doesn’t really believe it’s true.  “But if they do, then you’ll be the guys who changed history.”  
  
There’s a lot more talk, things Connor’s heard and read and been over so many times she could recite it all in her sleep, but it feels different this time, like something coming to a head.  She can feel certainty settling through her body the way time seems to slow down on a breakaway, when she can already see the goal happening and she just needs to put her body through the right moves to get it there.  
  
When they get to the bit about special rules, protecting them from harassment, dealing with “distractions”, putting young women in a locker room with older men who have wives and children, the same sexist old bullshit she’s heard a million times over, Connor kind of wants to scream.  If the guys in the league can’t be trusted to not be fucking animals around women they’re not married to then there’s already a problem, whether she and Dylan get drafted or not.  But she clenches her fists under the table and puts on her smoothest, softest, blandest media voice instead.  
  
“Yeah, you’re right,” she says, “it’ll mean some changes for you guys, and for whatever teams pick us up.  I think I’m worth it, though.”  Dylan reaches across under the table, out of sight of everyone, and squeezes her hand.  It makes Connor feel daring and grounded at the same time as she laces their fingers together, squeezes back.  “I think you think I am too.”  
  
She is, and they do.  Three days later, she and Dylan are both given special permission to enter the NHL entry draft.  It’s not a rule change, they say, just a trial to see if any team would even be willing to draft a girl.  But it’s a start.  
  
They’re both on every top ten list by the end of the week.  More than half are even projecting Connor to go first overall, much to the irritation of previous favourite Jack Eichel, if twitter’s anything to go by.  
  
“Don't feel sorry for him,” Dylan says, rolling her eyes.  
  
“I don't,” Connor protests. “He’s good though.”  
  
“Sure,” Dylan shrugs. “So am I. So’s Marns. You're better.”  
  
Connor’s humble but she’s not  _ modest _ .  She knows Dylan’s not pumping her tyres or whatever, it’s just a fact; Connor’s better than all of them, better than anyone has been in ages, the only reason she’s not  _ unanimousl _ y expected to go first is because she’s a girl and nobody knows if all the teams would be willing to do the extra work to take her on.  It makes her feel warm all over to hear Dylan say it anyway, so casually, like she’s as certain of Connor as she is of breathing.  She leans in and kisses Dylan on the cheek, swift and impulsive.  
  
“What was that for?” Dylan says, smiling.  Connor shrugs.  
  
“Just felt like it,” she says.

 

*

 

The top prospects tour is a ridiculous whirlwind, and way more fun than Connor would have expected that much off-ice attention to be.  There’s only one problem: Mitch Marner.  
  
Connor was anticipating that he’d be all over Dylan, knows they’ve hooked up a couple of times since that first one, although Dylan still won’t admit that it’s “a thing”.  She’d sort of braced herself for more of that, for trying not to be jealous (or at least for pretending she’s not where people can see her) for getting occasionally sexiled from her and Dylan’s shared hotel room and finding ways to distract herself that don’t involve underage drinking in public (the hotel’s got a 24-hour gym and she’s very good at channeling frustration into workouts, it’s all sorted).  She was more or less prepared for Mitch flirting as if his life depended on it.  What she wasn’t prepared for was that he’d be doing it at _her_.  
  
She complains to Dylan about it in the washroom at lunch, following her in there because it seemed like the only chance to have a conversation without Mitch literally hanging off her.  “I thought he liked you!”  
  
“Honestly he’s kind of a slut,” Dylan says, with what Connor considers an unreasonable degree of fondness. “I think that’s the only way he knows how to interact with people. I’m pretty sure he gave Eichs a BJ in the washroom on the Everglades tour.”  
  
Connor scoffs.  There’s no way _that_ actually happened.  Eichel was too traumatised by alligators or whatever.  And besides, Mitch spent most of the day draped all over _her_ , making dumb jokes and then staring at her eagerly to see if she was going to laugh, like a puppy bringing you a stick and waiting for you to throw it.  
  
She’d laughed a fair bit.  Puppies are cute, even unbelievably earnest ones.  Still, that doesn’t mean she wants to fuck one in a theme park toilet.  The idea makes her palms feel sweaty.  
  
“He better not expect me to…”  
  
“Hey, no, of course not,” says Dylan, bumping her shoulder against Connor’s.  It’s the soft soothing voice she uses when she thinks Connor’s getting worked up about something, which she _isn’t_ , she just… “I can talk to him if you want.”  
  
“No, don’t,” Connor grimaces.  She can just imagine that going through the league rumour mill.  Want to get under Connor McDavid’s skin?  Just hit on her, she’s too pure and uptight to cope with the most harmless of flirting from a kid she could probably knock over with one hand.  
  
She decides to talk to Mitch herself, though.  It’s the responsible thing to do.  Besides, they’ve known each other for ages, it’s not like he’s going to make a big deal about being turned down.  She corners him that night after dinner, pulling him aside when everyone’s on the way to Eichel and Hannifin’s room for an impromptu movie night.  
  
She’s tempted to start out with something nice first like “I’m flattered,” to let him down easy.  But she isn’t flattered, she’s annoyed and uncomfortable, and it’s stupid to pretend just to avoid hurting his feelings, even if he doesn’t mean it.  So she squashes down her pathological need to be polite to everyone and says instead, “Hey, we’re friends, but I’m not into you, ok?”  
  
“O...kay,” Mitch says slowly, looking at her like she’s a crazy person.  Connor crosses her arms over her chest and then feels like that’s too hostile so she stuffs her hands in her pockets instead.  Mitch tilts his head at her.  “Are you, like, making this announcement to everyone or you just wanted to make me feel extra special?”  
  
“No, I…” Connor frowns.  “You’ve been coming on pretty strong.  It’s weird.”  Mitch continues to look puzzled.  “I know you hook up a lot and that’s...fine or whatever,” she says, thinking of Dylan and feeling so far from fine her voice comes out all sharp and spiky, “but I don’t.  So.”  
  
“Oh,” says Mitch thoughtfully.  Then he shrugs, flashing that whipcrack smile of his.  “That’s cool, no problem.  So you...don’t ever?  Not even you and...”  
  
Connor jerks.  “Me and who?” she demands.    
  
“Uhhh, you know,” Mitch says, making a face as if he’s talking to an idiot.  “Stromer?”  
  
Connor’s face floods with heat.  “No?” she squeaks.  “Why would you...no??”  
  
He squints at her. “You're so close, though.”  
  
“She’s my...people can be friends without fucking, Marns, _God_.”  
  
Mitch blinks as if that thought had truly never occurred to him, and then laughs. “Sure, okay,” he grins. “If you say so. We gonna watch this movie or what?”  
  
When they get to the room, Dylan’s saved Connor a seat on one of the beds and makes grabby hands at her until she sits down and tucks herself into Dylan’s side.  
  
“All good?” Dylan murmurs into her hair.  
  
Connor meets Mitch’s eye across the room and he raises his eyebrows, far too smug, as if he’s tricked some kind of secret out of her.  She puts her head on Dylan’s shoulder and rolls her eyes at him.  
  
“All good,” she says.

 

*

 

> **Connor McDavid goes No. 1 to Oilers; Sabres get Jack Eichel at No. 2  
>  ** _ Katie Strang, ESPN.com, 27 Jun 2015  
>    
>  _ SUNRISE, Fla. -- The Connor McDavid era has officially started in the NHL.  
>    
>  The highly touted female prospect, regarded by many as a generational talent, was selected first overall by the Edmonton Oilers in the 2015 NHL draft Friday night at BB&T Center in South Florida, the first woman ever to be drafted by an NHL team.  
>    
>  "Unbelievable," McDavid said after the pick was announced. "This is such a surreal feeling. It's really hard to put into words right now how much this means to me.  
>    
>  Most considered the selection a surefire lock ever since the Oilers won the draft lottery in April, with the 18-year-old center the overwhelming consensus No. 1 pick.  Some remained skeptical, however, that the struggling Oilers would be willing to take a risk on a female player when Hobey Baker winner Jack Eichel was also available and a less controversial choice.  
>    
>  "This one wasn't a tough one," new Oilers general manager Peter Chiarelli said. "Connor is a special talent and a special kid, too.  Her gender was never a consideration for us.  
>    
>  "We're lucky to have her."  
>    
>  There was further speculation in the lead up to the draft that McDavid might be recruited by the newly formed National Women’s Hockey League, launched in April of this year.  With the buzz surrounding McDavid throughout her major junior career, her unique talent could be the drawcard the new women’s league needs to guarantee media and fan attention in its inaugural year.    
>    
>  However, McDavid was adamant on Friday that the NHL is where she wants to be. "It’s absolutely a dream come true,” she said.  
>    
>  _ Story continues below _
> 
>  

*

 

They knew they weren't going to end up on the same team, but when Dylan doesn’t even make the Yotes roster for the season it’s almost as much of a blow to Connor as it must be to her.  She’s gotten so used to having another girl by her side that going back to being the only one feels like missing a step going downstairs; she’s not going to fall but it’s a little dizzying.  
  
It’s not just that, either; not just having another girl around.  It’s Dylan specifically.  That one pre-season matchup and the stolen time together after the game isn’t enough, four or five times a year wouldn’t even be enough.  Connor misses her like a phantom limb.  It’s kind of embarrassing.  
  
She sort of thought being apart would change things, that maybe living in each other’s pockets for two years had made them too close too fast, and a little distance would make her feelings less intense and more manageable.    
  
She was wrong.  If anything, this is worse.  Now every time she gets a text from Dylan, or a snap, or even a notification she’s updated instagram, longing and loneliness hit her like a puck to the face.  Actual phone calls are like a drug.  Facetime is almost unbearable, although hanging up at the end is even worse.  Basically she’s a mess.  
  
At least she still has hockey. Like, boy howdy does she have hockey. The NHL is faster, rougher and louder than anything she’s ever done before, and there's no feeling that compares to scoring in Rogers Place and seeing the stands erupt just for her. Unless it's hearing little girls in pigtails and McDavid jerseys tell her how much they love playing and how they’re going to be just like her when they grow up.  She signed someone’s baby last week.  It was wild.  
  
“Is it as good as we thought it would be?” Dylan asks her on facetime, lying in bed at her billet in Erie with her hair spread out across the pillows (Connor wants to bury her face in it. It's ridiculous).  
  
“It's better,” Connor tells her. And then, before she can convince herself it's too much, she says, “I just wish you were here with me.”  
  
Dylan’s smile is a slow, spreading thing like ripples in a pond.  First one corner of her mouth curves up, then the other, then her nose crinkles and her eyes glitter.  
  
“You won't be saying that next year when I’m kicking your ass up and down the ice,” she says, absurdly cocky, and Connor snorts.  
  
“I can't wait to see that.”  
  
Connor’s got this dream about winning the Stanley Cup.  Well of course she does, that's what it's all about, right? But in her dream she gets her day with the Cup and she takes it home, and Dylan’s waiting there with the rest of Connor’s family, just like she belongs there and nobody would ever question it. And Connor sets the Cup down (safely out of the way, because Dylan’s still got to win it one day too, obviously) and just kisses her right there in front of everybody.    
  
She doesn't have to do any elaborate coming out confessions or sit everybody down one at a time to explain herself, because it's just easy and obvious and it doesn't matter what anyone outside that bubble thinks of them, or her. Sometimes she dips Dylan and her whole family cheers like they're in a cheesy movie. It's awesome.  
  
Then she wakes up and thinks about doing press conferences and giving gross opposing goons even more disgusting insults to throw at her. She thinks about how you should probably ask before you kiss someone out of nowhere, and that of course Dylan loves her but she might say no anyway. And then she goes back to saying and doing nothing, because pining in secret seems safer than the alternative.  
  
It's a nice dream, though.

 

*

 

Connor knows she’s got kind of a girl-next-door vibe.  She’s not pretty, but she’s pleasant and whitebread enough that sometimes people pretend she is, because you can’t be a woman in the public eye without people obsessing over your appearance some way or another.  If they like you, you’re automatically beautiful.  If they don’t, well.  So far she hasn’t had to worry about that.  
  
What she has had to worry about is that her polite good girl image sometimes makes people forget she’s a fucking hockey player, just as capable of being gross and foul-mouthed and pissed off as any other hockey player.  
  
Of course Dylan thinks it’s hilarious when someone’s snap of her yelling  _ fuck _ at the top of her lungs after a particularly frustrating Otters game somehow goes viral.  
  
“It’s not funny!” Connor tells her after she’s finished laughing herself sick on facetime.  
  
“Are you kidding?  It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” Dylan says, wiping away actual tears.  “Oh my God, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”  
  
“You’re the worst,” Connor grumbles.  “You’d think people’d have better things to talk about,”  
  
She knows the joke will die down eventually, but not before it turns into prime chirping material, not just from her own guys but every other team in the NHL.  
  
“Are we gonna have to set up a swear jar for you, Davo?”  
  
“Hey, she does have a personality after all!”  
  
“Never would have thought you'd have a mouth on you like that, McDavid.  Wonder what else that mouth’s good for, eh?”  
  
Yeah, there’s that too.  It turns out men aren't much more imaginative than teenage boys when it comes to threats and insults, and the NHL is even more useless at shutting it down than the O.  Connor’s pretty good at ignoring it after three years playing with boys, or at skating away from it at least - the guys who say things like that are never half the hockey player she is anyway - but it’s not like it doesn’t register at all.  There’s a difference between hearing it from a skinny teenager she could knock right over with a strategic hip check and hearing it from a vet with five or ten years on her and a lot more muscle.  
  
She can still outskate them with her eyes closed, and she’s got a whole team of guys who’d basically kill for her at this point, team baby and reminder of their kid sisters and supposed franchise saver all rolled into one like she is.  But sometimes it’s more satisfying to talk back.  
  
“Sorry, who the fuck are you again?” she says, as witheringly as she can.  She points behind her to the fans with the giant handmade sign right at the glass that says MCJESUS SAVES in obnoxiously orange letters.  “I think you know who  _ I _ am, don’t you?”  
  
Of course, even the nickname that’s supposed to be a compliment to her skills is comparing her to a dude.  Turns out sexism is still there even when nobody’s being overt about it, even when people are on her side, a nasty little undercurrent to everything.  
  
Oh well.  Sticks and stones, right?

 

*

 

**McJesus is my Homegirl @OilGoil  
** So who’s gonna come with me to Philly and fight Manning?? Accidental my ass #fucktheflyers  
  
**Ken Badgley  @ktbadgley78  
**_Replying to @OilGoil  
_ There goes the #oilers season. That’s why there’s no checking in the women’s leagues!   
  
**McJesus is my Homegirl @OilGoil  
**_Replying to @ktbadgley78  
_ Nice #victimblaming there dude    
  
**Ken Badgley @ktbadgley78  
**_Replying to @OilGoil  
_ Don’t get me wrong not blaming her just pointing out NHL isn’t a #safespace for a girl. Women aren’t as strong as guys that’s just biology  
  
  
Connor wants to think it was an accident.  She certainly can’t _prove_ Manning and Del Zotto hurt her on purpose.  She watches the replay over and over, like digging her thumb into a bruise, until she can target the exact moment her collarbone broke, filling in the part of her memory that’s nothing but panic and pain and the boards coming up to meet her with Manning on top of her.  But there’s nothing conclusive there, no matter what the millions of hot takes people keep tagging her in on Twitter might say.  The official Oilers position is that it was an unfortunate accident that could have happened to anyone, not a sign the league isn’t safe for women or that women aren’t tough enough for the league.  
  
She hopes they’re right.  
  
But a month.  She lasted one lousy month in the NHL before everything came to a screeching halt.  Fuck.The guys are great.  Hallsy and Leon say some really sweet things about her to the press, and they all rally round to try and keep her spirits up as much as possible, immediately after the surgery when she’s kind of useless and later when she’s rehabbing, trying to balance the need to be patient with the need to just _get better_ already.  Still, there’s only so much they can do.  Watching her history-making rookie season happen without her is maddening, and the endless parade of opinion pieces declaring that Dylan’s return to juniors and her injury prove the women in the NHL experiment was a failure don’t fucking help.  Everyone tells her not to read them but she can’t help herself.  
  
She makes a point of not crying in front of the media, ever. But she does an awful lot of crying away from it in that first month.  Angry, frustrated tears on Hallsy’s shoulder in their shared apartment. Choked up sniffling on the phone while Dylan says comforting things and tells her jokes until she’s able to pull herself together. Desolate, silent sobbing in the middle of the night when the painkillers wear off and she’s alone and feels like she’ll never play again.  She knows that’s stupid, that injuries happen to everyone and she’s young and fit and everything’s going to be fine.  But she can’t help feeling it anyway.  
  
She goes home for Christmas sore and frustrated, even though she’s healing faster than anyone thought she would, and doesn’t even get to see Dylan because she’s off in Finland at World Juniors.  With Mitch, of course.  Probably making full use of the solo hotel room that comes with being the only girl on the roster.  Every time she facetimes Dylan Mitch is right _there_ , like they're joined at the hip or something, and Connor never thought she’d want to be back in juniors but with her collarbone still not healed the feeling of missing out is nauseating.  
  
She meant what she said about considering Mitch her friend, but the easy way he’s leaning into Dylan’s side, the way he turns his head and says something into the curve of her neck that’s too quiet for Connor to hear but makes Dylan giggle and elbow him in the ribs, it’s too much.  It makes her feel sick.  
  
“Hey,” she says.  “Can I...can I talk to you alone?”    
  
She hates herself a little bit for how quickly Dylan’s expression changes, for the little possessive kick of satisfaction she feels when Dylan’s voice goes all soft and she says, “Of course, bud,” and then, “Fuck off, Marns,” shoving him off the bed and out of sight.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
He makes some halfhearted noise of protest, but he goes, and Connor thinks: _that’s right, fuck off Marns_.  Though she at least has the grace to feel bad about it as soon as she’s thought it.  
  
“Sorry.  I shouldn’t’ve…”  
  
“Nah, he’ll cope” Dylan says easily, smiling, and Connor feels it like a physical touch through the phone screen.  “You’re my favourite, everyone knows that.”

 

*

 

They don’t make the playoffs and she tries not to feel guilty about it.  Dylan doesn’t bother telling her it’s not her job to get the Oilers to the playoffs because...it is.  Maybe it’s not  _ solely _ her job, and maybe her injury was unavoidable, but they both know that’s what everyone’s expecting of her; that she’ll be the one to fix everything.  Sometimes the faith Edmonton has in her is a huge rush, and other times it feels like a weight around her neck that’s going to choke her.  
  
As for the Otters, their regular season is amazing, and then they get swept in round three of their own playoffs.  Connor, for her part, doesn’t bother telling Dylan that at least the team to knock them out was the one to win the Memorial Cup, because losing is losing and it sucks no matter who you lose to.  Instead she tries to be gracious and sends Mitch a congratulatory text when the Knights come out on top.  
  
Not right away, though.  Erie’s still her team too.

 

*

 

She wears a blue dress to her first ever NHL Awards and looks fancier than she has perhaps ever looked, and she hates every minute of it because Dylan’s not there with her like she was supposed to be.  Jack Eichel glares at her the whole night like he thinks he can beat her to the Calder with just the power of his mind, and then neither of them win it, and she’s so frustrated she strong-arms him into his hotel room after the ceremony just to feel something other than rage and disappointment and horrible gut-wrenching loneliness.  
  
It’s wildly out of character and completely stupid, and it almost works.  It’s tiring, at least.  She kind of thought she would feel... _ more _ , is all.  
  
It’s so unlike her, is the thing, but it feels like the breaking point of something restless and angry that’s been building in her for months.  She’s been good and nice and perfect all season.  She doesn’t want to be nice any more.  Fucking a guy who can barely stand to be in her presence just for the hell of it certainly isn’t nice.  She’s not used to not being liked.  She’s getting used to being wanted, though.  
  
Eichel’s unexpectedly soft afterwards, like one orgasm is all it takes to drain all the sharp-edged bitterness out of him, and when he wraps around her like an octopus in the aftermath it makes her miss Dylan so much it feels like being punched in the chest.  
  
“This isn’t going to be a thing,” she tells him as she curls in under his arm, pillowing her head on his shoulder.  She’s only got so much bitchiness in her and she likes cuddling, okay?  She’s missed it this year, sleeping alone in her single room on roadies with no cloud of coconut-smelling curls getting up her nose. “I’m not a puck bunny.”  
  
He snorts.  “Relax, McDavid. I could do better.”  
  
“You didn't, though,” she reminds him.    
  
Okay, so maybe she can still be a bitch when she wants to be.  
  
It’s not going to be a thing, but it happens again anyway at the World Cup.  They make her captain and she can tell he’s sour about it, even though they both know she deserves it.  There’s literally nothing attractive about him except his hockey, but his hockey is really fucking good, and so is hers, and somehow they get on better as teammates than they have before now, and Team North America absolutely run the show against Sweden.  She might never get her showdown against Captain Canada, but they’re still in it and she feels kind of indestructible.  And then Dylan sends her a selfie of her and Mitch in the stands wearing matching black and orange snapbacks and matching woo faces, and suddenly she wants to put her fist through a wall.  
  
But that's never gone well for her before, so she tells Dylan she’s too tired to meet up after the game and drags Eichs back to her hotel room instead.  
  
“I thought you said this wasn’t a thing?” he says dryly when she shuts the door and shoves him up against it.  He’s bigger than her, but he lets her do it.  
  
“Shut up and take your pants off,” she tells him.  
  
She’s still the captain until their tournament’s officially over. He does what he’s told.

 

*

 

Finland doesn’t beat Russia, and just like that they’re out.  It’s a good thing Connor isn’t superstitious, or she’d think it was some kind of cosmic justice for sleeping with a guy she doesn’t like enough to forget about a girl she likes too much.

 

*

 

She’s got a giant hickey right at the base of her throat because, shockingly, Jack Eichel has no fucking manners. It’s still there days later when Dylan asks if she wants to come over and insult Sidney Crosby while they watch the final.  Connor doesn’t really feel the need to insult anyone, and she’s self-conscious about the hickey, but she’s got a hoodie that mostly covers it.  Plus she feels bad about ditching Dylan with no excuse and the thought of seeing her alone, getting to have her all to herself even if only for a few hours, makes her feel like a balloon is swelling in her chest, buoyant and half-suffocating at the same time.  
  
God, she’s so stupid about her.  
  
So stupid, in fact, that it’s only the start of the third before she completely forgets about Eichs and his neck-biting habit and takes her hoodie off because it’s too warm on the couch.  
  
She glances over and Dylan’s looking at her strangely, like Connor’s got something on her face.  Or, wait, her neck.  She claps a hand over the hickey a split second too late which, of course, only draws more attention to it.  
  
“Too tired to hang out, huh?” says Dylan mildly.  She’s smiling, but it looks a little forced.  
  
“I…it’s not what...” Connor flushes, letting her hand drop.  She can’t lie to  _ Dylan _ , of all people.  “Sorry.”  
  
Dylan gives her a long, searching look, her expression unreadable; it makes Connor feel weirdly exposed and nervous.  
  
“Nah, it's cool,” she says at last, with a more genuine smile.  “I should be happy you’re finally loosening up and having fun, right?”  
  
She tips towards Connor on the couch and leans into her, head resting warm and heavy on her shoulder.  Connor relaxes into her touch.  She knows it’s a peace offering, a reassurance that there’s no hard feelings, but she lets herself imagine that it’s more than that too.  There’s hockey happening on the TV but all of a sudden she’s barely aware of who’s playing, let alone who’s winning, all her attention focused in on the soft warmth of Dylan’s body where it’s pressed up against hers.  
  
“So who is he?” Dylan says, and Connor’s heart deflates a little.  Right.  He.  “Secret Edmonton boyfriend flew out to watch the game?  I know all the Toronto guys you know.”  
  
“I don’t have a  _ secret boyfriend _ ,” Connor huffs.  She could say  _ what makes you think it was a guy? _  But it  _ was _ , so she doesn’t.  
  
“Well I know you wouldn't fuck a teammate, so…” Connor doesn’t mean to tense up, but obviously she fails, because Dylan sits up abruptly and stares at her with wide eyes. “Oh my God, you  _ did _ !  Who is it?  Ekblad? Matthews? Marns’ll flip if you managed to hit that before he does.  Oh shit, it's not Nugent-Hopkins, is it?”  
  
“No!” Connor exclaims, indignant. She’s not  _ that _ stupid.  Jack was her teammate for three games, she  _ works _ with Nuge, he’s practically  _ family _ .  
  
“Then wh-- Oh,  _ Connor. _  You didn’t.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Connor, as dignified as she can manage.  She can feel her face heating up, though, god damn it.  What good is media training if it doesn’t work when you really need it?  
  
Dylan holds up her hands, palms out, her lips twitching as if she’s trying to hide a smile.  
  
“Hey, look, don’t get me wrong, I like Eichs,” she says.  “ _ You _ don’t, though.”  
  
“I like him,” Connor protests, a little lamely.  Dylan gives her a look.  “Okay, fine, not much.  He doesn’t like  _ me _ .  He was alright this month though.”  
  
“You think he’s...hot, though?” Dylan looks skeptical, and Connor can’t really blame her.  She wrinkles her nose by way of response.  “Uh, okay.  Was it.  Good?”  
  
Connor makes an “eh” sort of face.  It was fine.  He came, she conquered, she felt tired enough to be slightly less angry afterwards.  Expedient.  She can’t exactly tell Dylan the real reason why she did it.  
  
“Wow,” says Dylan.  “Romantic.”  
  
Connor makes a dismissive noise.  She wants to say something scathing about  _ Mitch Marner _ being romantic, but she can’t work out how to say it without sounding insane so she bites her tongue.  
  
“Hey,” Dylan nudges her, frowning.  “What’s going on with you?  It feels like you’re not telling me something.”  
  
There’s so much Connor isn’t telling her it feels like a tangible weight on her chest.  
  
“I don't tell you everything,” she says.  
  
Dylan laughs.  “Since when?”  
  
When she laughs it actually physically hurts to look at her, she looks so good.  Connor always thought that was a cliche, not something that happened in real life, but sitting here on Dylan’s parents’ couch with the World Cup final all but forgotten in the background, she feels as if she’s drowning, she can't get enough air.  She wants to kiss Dylan so badly she can barely stand it.  But she can’t.  She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.  
  
“It was stupid,” she says, looking away.  Almost as stupid as this.  “I didn’t tell you because I shouldn’t have done it.”  
  
She has to work within the rules, like any game.  She can bend them as much as she can get away with, if nobody notices, but she can’t just do whatever she wants.  Whatever happened with Jack is risky, but she can abandon that without a thought (and she will, right now, she’s going to).  Telling Dylan that she’s in love with her and has been for years would be worse, because that’s not something she can abandon, and she can’t be the first woman in the NHL  _ and _ the first gay player in the NHL. Nobody is lucky or talented enough for that to be anything but exhausting.  
  
But hey, on the other hand, Dylan hooks up with guys and actually enjoys it, so it might just ruin her most important friendship instead of her career.  
  
Dylan rolls her eyes.  “Oh, come on.  It’s okay to live a little.  I don’t really get it, but...”  
  
“No, you  _ don’t _ get it,” Connor says sharply.  “I  _ can’t _ just live a little.  When a guy fucks up he’s one asshole who made a mistake, but when I fuck up it means women shouldn't be allowed in the league.”  It’s not  _ fair _ but it’s true.  “What I do matters, Dylan. Not just for us, for…”  
  
“For every girl who comes up after us, yeah, I  _ know _ ,” she sighs. “We’ve had this conversation before.  But you’re allowed to be a person, Davo.  You don’t always have to be McJ--”  
  
“ _ Don’t call me McJesus _ .”  
  
“Alright, Mc...Wonder Woman then.”  
  
All the tension dissolves like a burst soap bubble.  Connor splutters a laugh.  “Mc _ Wonder _ Woman?”  
  
“I don’t know, man, I was on the spot,” Dylan grins.  “Bet you’d look great in those little shorts though.”  
  
Connor closes her eyes.  She has what plenty of people would call a charmed life, with exactly the career she’s always wanted, all the money she could possibly need, literal screaming fans, glass ceilings shattering in the face of her undeniable talent, etcetera.  And somehow it still feels like an actual hellscape designed purely to torture her sometimes.  
  
She feels Dylan curl into her side again, nudging under her arm so they can snuggle properly.  An arm goes around her waist and squeezes.  
  
“I love you, dumbass,” Dylan says.  “You can tell me anything, no matter how stupid or weird or bad-role-model-y you think it is, and that’s not gonna change.”  
  
“I…” Connor says.  The words sit on her tongue like an immovable weight, stuck against the back of her teeth.  “Yeah,” she sighs at last.  “Yeah, buddy, I know.”  
  
The Canadians win, and Connor holds on to Dylan, and she doesn’t tell her anything.

 

*

 

Her first season as captain starts with a bang, two decisive wins against Calgary, and Dylan makes the Yotes roster, and everything feels like it’s finally falling into place, and then Dylan gets scratched for the season opener. She keeps up a string of frustrated texts during the game, and Connor half wants to tell her to be present and pay attention, and half wants to cling to the contact like a lifeline, feeling as mad as if she were the one in the press box. She tells herself she’s not being distracting, anyway, because paying attention’s never been Dylan’s problem, it's her  _ speed _ that needs work, and you can’t fix that sitting on your ass. If they'd actually let her  _ play _ ...

**CONNOR MCDAVID (19:35)  
** _ It really sucks :( But they put you on the roster, they’re going to play you eventually _

**DYLAN STROME (19:39)  
** _ Yea. Just have 2 wrk harder nd be patient and stuff.    
  
_ **DYLAN STROME (19:40)  
** _ Feels like I did that all last year tho _

**CONNOR MCDAVID (19:40)  
** _ I know buddy _

She hadn’t realised how much she needed Dylan to make it in the NHL until now when she finds herself having to consider that maybe she won’t.  
  
As soon as she has that thought she hates herself for it. She doesn’t look at her own press unless someone specifically tells her to, she’s not stupid, but somehow she hasn’t trained herself out of reading on whenever she sees Dylan’s name come up in a tweet or an article.  It’s bad enough seeing everyone else dismiss her as a career minor-leaguer who’ll never be ready for the show, the least Connor can do is have a little faith in her herself.

**CONNOR MCDAVID (22:21)  
** _ I gotta get some sleep. Miss you  _

**DYLAN STROME (22:22)  
** _ Miss you too. Good luck tmr!   
  
_ Connor stares at the screen and the little kissy faces wink back at her like a dare, or a taunt.  Dylan loves her.  They’re best friends.  She’s not going to be weird about the liking girls thing, that’s never even been a question, so why isn’t Connor just  _ telling _ her already?  
  
Her phone buzzes again.  
  
**DYLAN STROME (22:28)  
** _ Don’t ride Eichs too hard, that ankle needs to heal   
  
_ Connor throws her phone across the room so hard it leaves a mark on the wall.

 

*

 

> **Connor McDavid shows she's mortal in ugly loss to banged-up Buffalo Sabres  
>  ** _ October 16, 2016 - Associated Press  
>    
>  _ EDMONTON — OK, the Oilers aren’t going 82-0. Connor McDavid isn’t on pace for 246 points any longer. And as somebody laughingly tweeted, “Time for a new rink.”  
>    
>  The Oilers laid an egg Sunday in a whatever can go wrong, will go wrong 6-2 drubbing to the injury-smacked Buffalo Sabres, who came in without two of their top six players — Jack Eichel and Evander Kane — and acted like it was ice-water off their collective backs.  
>    
>  After 7-4 and 5-3 wins against Calgary to kick off the season, the Oilers fell behind early with a slumbering, lumbering effort at Rogers Place, and while they managed two goals in 100 seconds late in the first period by Benoit Pouliot, who would later be benched, and Milan Lucic, little went right for them on a very sobering night.  
>    
>  McDavid, after six points in the first two games, had one shot and that’s it, with veteran defenceman Josh Gorges following her everywhere but to the team meal, proving that sometimes Supergirl’s cape falls off and the kid’s human, after all. From the second period on, McDavid was centring Leon Draisaitl and Patrick Maroon, not Jordan Eberle and Milan Lucic, as coach Todd McLellan got out the blender, but she had an off-night, with her and Gorges jawing by the crease in the third period after Maroon bowled over Sabres’ goalie Robin Lehner.  
>    
>  _ Story continues below _

 

*

 

**JACK EICHEL (23:01)  
**_I’m in room 341 if you want commiserations_  

**CONNOR MCDAVID (23:15)  
** _ Fuck you.  You can’t gloat when you didn’t even play. _

**JACK EICHEL (23:19)  
** _ Are you sure you did??  
  
_ **JACK EICHEL (23:19)  
** _ PS: If I had played it would have been 9-2  
  
  
_ Jack actually looks surprised to see her, which is gratifying for about ten seconds until he smirks and folds his arms, leaning against the wall.  Connor scowls and shuts the door behind her.  
  
“If you give me another goddamn hickey I’ll break your other ankle.”  
  
That wipes the smug look right off his face.  
  
“Fine,” he frowns. “But turn around. We’re not friends.  I don't want to look at you.”  
  
“Fine by me,” she snaps, already tugging her shirt over her head.  She’s not even sure why she’s mad at him since she’s the one who came here, but she hates losing, and she hates distance, and she hates that she can’t stop thinking about things she can’t have.  It’s not enough but she can have this.  
  
She lets him bend her over the end of the bed so he can prop one knee on the mattress and keep his weight off the bad ankle, because she’s not a total monster.  If it also makes it a little easier for her to pretend the hands on her waist and the stuttering breath on the back of her neck belong to someone else, well that's her little secret.

 

*

 

Probably the best advice about social media Connor’s ever gotten is “don’t check your mentions” followed closely by “never engage,” and she’s stuck to both of those things since entering the NHL, but she never thought she’d have to ignore something like  _ this _ instead of defending herself.  She’s utterly failed at the first rule because it seems like every second tweet about the NWHL salary fiasco mentions her, and she can’t stop scrolling through them.  It’s like watching a train crash unfolding before her eyes; a train crash that’s increasingly angry at her even though she had nothing to do with it.    
  
  
**The Bluestocking Line @bluestocking_ln  
** NWHL cuts player salaries in half to “save season” yet @cmcdavid97 earns more in 1 season than 1 NWHL player could earn in 30 yrs #empowered  
  
**Ladies don’t start fights, they finish them @TooManyMen  
** Hey @cmcdavid97 how’s that more opportunities for women in hockey thing going for ya? #ThanksMcDavid  
  
**Feminist Killjoy @PuckingFeminist  
** NWHL athletes lose half their already shitty pay and surprise! @cmcdavid97 has nothing to say #everywomanforherself #ThanksMcDavid  
  
  
That hashtag, the “thanks McDavid” one, hasn’t quite reached trending status but there are hundreds of tweets under it, ranging from the merely sarcastic to the downright vicious.  You’d think she had personally stolen the NWHL players’ pay for herself, the way some people have been coming for her.  No actual players seem to be engaging yet, but there’s a lump in Connor’s throat when she thinks about it.  Who knows how many of them are reading those tweets and privately agreeing, thinking those exact things about her, and are just too professional to say them in public?  Maybe she does need to say something.  But what can she say without starting a huge shitstorm?  
  
She’s rapidly weakening anyway on the second rule of social media when something else happens that shoves her own standing in women’s hockey right out of her head.  She sees the news on twitter about ten seconds before the phone rings in her hand.  
  
“What the fuck,” Mitch says as soon as she answers.  “What the  _ fuck _ .”  
  
“I  _ know _ ,” Connor exclaims, angry twitter feminists completely forgotten.  
  
“They sent her down  _ again _ , what the  _ hell _ .”  
  
Snippets of the Coyotes’ press release swim in and out of her head, condescending platitudes like “exceptional progress” and “best for her development” and “her future in the NHL is very bright”.  Which would all be great if there was literally anything left for Dylan to learn in the O, or if she hadn’t spent the last five weeks on the bench.  And now she’s headed back to Erie again, just when it almost felt like everything they worked for was finally coming together.  
  
Everything  _ she _ worked for, that is. It's Dylan’s career, not Connor’s.  
  
“They barely even let her  _ play _ ,” she says, pacing her bedroom furiously.  She wants to hit something.  She wants to fly to Arizona and fight every single person on the Coyotes management team.  Seven fucking games.  
  
“You don’t think it’s the girl thing, do you?” says Mitch, sounding outraged at the very idea.  Connor chews her lip.  
  
“No.  No?  I’m a girl,” she points out.  It’s more hopeful than anything.  She doesn’t want to think that could be a factor, that even a team that was willing to draft a woman might not be willing to give her a proper chance.  But it’s possible, isn’t it?  They pay lip service to inclusion at the draft and then save themselves the extra work of actually following through by never letting Dylan show what she can do in the first place. Surely nobody would waste a third overall pick on a publicity stunt, though. Surely.  
  
“Yeah, but you’re...you,” Mitch says.  “No one was ever going to send  _ you _ down.  There’d be a riot.”  
  
Connor frowns.  He thinks that’s reassuring, but it isn’t.  She wants a riot for Dylan too, and for every other woman who should be playing in front of huge adoring crowds and isn’t, who should be getting paid what she’s worth and isn’t.  For every girl whose development is somehow less important because what's the point if she’s never going to be in the NHL.  
  
Her phone vibrates against her cheek, a message coming in, followed quickly by a second.  “I’ve got to go,” she says.  “She might be trying to call.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘course,” Mitch says.  “Tell her I said fuck ‘em, okay?”  
  
She ends the call and opens up her messages.  
  
**DYLAN STROME (08:04)  
** _ Ugggggh  
  
_ **DYLAN STROME (08:04)  
** _ Join the NHL she said.  It’ll be fun she said. FML  
  
_ “Sorry,” Dylan says instead of hello when Connor calls her.  “I didn’t mean...it’s not your fault.  It just fucking sucks, you know?”  
  
“It really fucking sucks,” Connor says feelingly.  “I’m furious, so’s Marns. Did they say why?”  
  
Dylan sighs.  “Same as always, you know.  It’s not that we don’t  _ want  _ you, we just don’t think you’re quite  _ there _ yet.  Could’ve fucking told me that five weeks ago, eh?” There’s an echoing clang like she’s just kicked something and she swears under her breath.  
  
“Where are you?”  
  
“Airport,” she says, and then laughs.  “Taking my feelings out on the garbage can in the washroom.  My flight’s not for like an hour.”  
  
“Are you hiding?  From fans, or…”  
  
Dylan snorts mirthlessly.  “This is Phoenix, Davo,” she says.  “Most of the people here don’t even know they have a state hockey team.  And the ones that do wouldn’t recognise a rookie who only played a handful of shitty minutes anyway.” Connor hears the sound of her kicking the garbage can again.  
  
“Don’t,” she insists.  “Don’t beat yourself up like that.  I know they didn’t give you a proper chance, but you gotta...you’ve got to make the most of it.  Go back to Erie and wipe the floor with everybody and make them regret sidelining you, okay?”  
  
“I’m not really in the mood for a captain’s pep talk right now,” Dylan says irritably.  “Can’t you just let me be mad for like a minute before I have to be a good role model or whatever?”  
  
Connor’s stomach lurches.  She climbs into the middle of her bed and pulls her knees up to her chin, hugging them with one arm.  “I’m not saying don’t be mad,” she says carefully, trying not to be too captainy.  It’s surprising sometimes how hard that is to switch off.  “Of course you’re mad.  Just don’t be so mad at yourself.”  
  
Dylan lets out a long breath that whistles down the phone like a balloon slowly deflating.  “I’m just tired, Davo,” she sighs.  
  
Connor feels worse than helpless.  It’d be easy if she went back to being angry, that’s something Connor can understand, that’s thrumming through her underneath everything like electricity right now, something she can use.  Dylan just sounds defeated.  
  
Maybe it would have been better if Connor hadn’t pushed so hard.  If she’d been content with a semi-pro women’s league, with smaller crowds and less money and fitting training in around a day job, if she hadn’t been so determined to muscle her way into the show, she wouldn’t have dragged Dylan along with her only to make her suffer through two years of bullshit.    
  
#ThanksMcDavid  
  
Maybe all the angry tweets are right.  Maybe there’s a reason why other women haven’t done this.  
  
“I wish you were here,” Dylan says in a small voice.  “I could use a hug.”  Then she gives a heartbreaking little sniff.  
  
Connor kind of feels like crying too, but that’s not going to help anyone.  “I’m sending you a hug right now,” she says instead.  “A telepathic hug.  It's a big one so, like, brace yourself.”    
  
Dylan laughs, watery but genuine. “You’re such a dork,” she says, all soft and fond.  
  
“Did you get it?”  
  
“Hang on, you  _ are _ in a whole different country, it's gonna take-- _ oof _ ,” she makes a sound like being punched in the gut. “Wow, that  _ was _ a big one, you been working out?”  
  
Connor giggles. “Now who’s the dork?”  
  
It helps, a little bit.  Helps her as much as it seems to help Dylan, and maybe both of them just need a moment to be dorks and not think about hockey or the weight of expectation that’s so different but still so heavy on both of them.    
  
They stay on the phone for nearly an hour just talking shit until Connor notices the time and asks when the plane leaves, and Dylan swears colourfully and has to book it to make her flight.  Connor stays where she is after she’s hung up, stretched out on her back and staring at the ceiling while all the expectations settle back onto her shoulders.  It feels a little lighter, if only for a moment.

 

*

 

What with everything, Connor’s a little nervous when she finds out about the tribute thing they’re doing for Hayley Wickenheiser’s retirement.  She’s mostly gotten over being starstruck by hockey celebrities now she is one herself, but even though the feminist twitter storm has mostly died down she still feels nervous about meeting the queen of Canadian women’s hockey.  She had a poster of Wicks on her bedroom wall growing up, right next to the Sidney Crosby one.  What if she hates her? What if she’s disappointed in Connor for not doing enough to lift up other women?  
  
But then she actually sees her out at centre ice, smaller and friendlier than the larger than life figure she imagined, and she goes to shake her hand like she’s supposed to and gets pulled into a hug instead, and it’s actually kind of awesome.  Connor’s met plenty of legends, she’s on a first name basis with Wayne Gretzky, but somehow none of the other meetings have felt quite like this one. There's something in the way Wicks smiles at her that all the men around them can't understand and don't get to share.  
  
It's not til later, after the game, that Connor starts feeling nervous again, when she finally gets an opportunity to talk to her one on one.  It’s all just small talk at first, friendly enough if a little stilted, but eventually Connor manages to build up to what’s been bothering her most.  
  
“You said once you don’t think a woman could make a career in the NHL,” she says, looking down at her hands.  “That it’d be too dangerous long term.”  
  
“I did say that,” Wicks agrees.  “I’ve played with men a lot, I know what I’m talking about.”  When Connor looks up, she’s smiling, though, one eyebrow raised.  “Going to prove me wrong?”  
  
It should be encouraging, it’s probably meant to be encouraging, but it makes Connor’s heart sink.  “That’s not...I’m not doing this because I think I’m better than you.  Better than women’s hockey.”  
  
It’s been eating at her since November, between Dylan going back to Erie and the salary drama in the NWHL; is she actually helping girls who want to play hockey, want to play seriously, or is she only helping herself?  So far her presence in the NHL hasn’t changed anything.  She’s still the only one, a season and a half after her history-making draft.  The rules haven’t changed to bring more girls into the league, and women’s hockey is still as underfunded and undersupported as ever.  When she started, she thought her talent would open doors for other girls, force the world to acknowledge that women can play as well as men or better, and she thought the NHL was the most prominent stage to make that statement, but so far it hasn’t worked.  People don’t think she’s proof female hockey players are worth paying attention to, they just think she’s an exception.  
  
Wicks looks at her consideringly, tilting her head.  
  
“You don’t really talk about women’s hockey,” she says after a moment.  “Not publically.  It’s hard to know what your opinion is, to be honest.”  
  
She sounds so carefully neutral it feels like an accusation.  Connor hadn’t quite realised how indistinguishable neutrality could be from contempt until she suddenly feels defensive in the face of it.  
  
It’s true she doesn’t talk about women’s hockey in interviews.  She doesn’t talk about women at all.  It’s mostly because nobody ever asks her about any women except Dylan, and they barely even ask about her any more - probably reporters think if she cared about the women’s game she’d be playing it, and they certainly don’t care - but she’s never really thought about how that must look to other women players.  She’s been so wrapped up in keeping her own head above water, in feeling isolated and lonely when she should be on top of the world, in worrying about Dylan, that she’s barely thought about anything else.  
  
“I’ve never been sure what to say,” she says honestly.  “I didn’t think anyone would want me speaking for the women’s game when I’ve never even played it.  And...” she hesitates, then ploughs on.  “And I don’t think a lot of female players like me very much.  For being a traitor or whatever.”  
  
Wicks shrugs.  “A lot of women don't want to do what you're doing. I guess that could make them a little hostile, especially since you've never said anything about playing with women,” she says frankly. “Some might say you being here in the NHL gives men and fans and the hockey media an excuse to ignore other female athletes because they can point to you and say: how can we be sexist when we’re giving this girl so much attention?”  
  
“That's not fair.” The only female teammate she’s had since she was a little kid is probably her favourite person to play with; she’s never made a secret of that.  
  
“No,” Wicks sighs. “It isn't. It's not up to you to end sexism in sport. But it's not untrue either.”  
  
Connor’s silent for a moment, thinking. Wicks just watches her, not interrupting but not helping either.  
  
“Do  _ you _ think I’m doing the wrong thing?” Connor asks at last. “You went and played in a men’s league. Do you regret it?”  
  
“No. But the options were a bit different then.”  
  
And she’s spent her considerable career fighting for women and girls to play hockey with other women and girls. Connor doesn't know if she would have even tried to play at all without that, without knowing women could do it and be great at it, let alone pursued it as far as she has.  And what has she done for girls who want to play in her last half decade of playing with boys and men? Signed some autographs, made some commercials. It's not nothing, but it hardly feels like enough now.  
  
“I should be doing more,” she says. “Talking more.”  
  
The thought makes her nervous. So far she’s used her media training and her bland, polite hockey robot sound bites as a bit of a shield; she makes enough waves just by being a woman without being an outspoken one as well. But she can’t help remembering the shitstorm of criticism aimed at her in the NWHL salary drama and the #ThanksMcDavid hashtag.  It’s not like saying nothing protects her from any kind of censure.  
  
“That's up to you,” Wicks smiles. “But if I had a platform like yours when I was your age, I wouldn't have wanted to waste it. Here,” she fishes in her handbag and comes up with a card, holds it out to Connor. “That's my personal number, not for press. If you ever want an actual woman to talk to. I know being a pioneer gets kind of lonely sometimes.”  
  
Connor takes the card and turns it over in her hands.  
  
“It does, yeah,” she says, her voice coming out a little strained. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

**Connor McDavid @cmcdavid97  
** Huge privilege to farewell @wick_22 at Rogers Place today. A true hockey icon. Wouldn’t be where I am today without her! #ThanksHayley  
  
**Hayley Wickenheiser @wick_22  
** _ Replying to @cmcdavid97  
_ Thanks Connor!  Great to catch up, don’t be a stranger ;)  
  
**Ladies don’t start fights, they finish them @TooManyMen  
** Holy shit check out @cmcdavid97 acknowledging a female player that isn’t her bestie! Did she finally remember she’s a girl?

 

*

 

**CONNOR MCDAVID (13:12)  
** _ Happy Galentine’s Day :) Wish I was playing against you tomorrow  _

 

**DYLAN STROME (13:16)  
** _ Me too babe.  Love u  _

 

It's weird being in Glendale on Valentine’s Day.  They’d joked about spending Valentine’s Day together and now they won’t get to see each other at all, now Dylan’s on the other side of the country.  Connor was going to make a reservation at some fancy restaurant, make a joke out of it, but now she’s all alone and at a loose end and it feels worse than she thought it would.  
  
Half the guys have skype dates with their girlfriends and wives after the game, and Connor doesn’t feel like being alone in her hotel room but she doesn’t really want to tag along while the single guys try and pick up lonely girls in some club either, so she makes her excuses and then slips away on her own when nobody’s paying attention.  
  
She can't quite imagine Dylan living here, surrounded by actual cactuses and sprawling historical buildings and never needing a scarf to go outside. She looks so cute in winter with her hair exploding out of her toque and her cheeks all pink with cold. Of course, Connor thinks she looks cute all the time, so there’s that.  
  
She avoids sports bars and anything that looks like it has a dress-code - she’s wearing jeans and a nondescript snapback pulled low over her still-damp postgame hair, but she still doesn’t want to get hassled by any hockey fans - and eventually settles on a divey looking country bar. There's a lot of overlap between country fans and hockey fans in Edmonton, but she doesn't know if that's true down here. And besides, there are a lot of women around which is comforting. She walks in quickly with her head down, tucks herself into a booth in the corner and tugs her hat a little lower, just in case.  
  
Actually...now she looks around a bit, there are a  _ lot _ of women around. And she’s barely seen any men, which is pretty weird for a country bar, isn't it?  
  
It's not until she notices a couple of women in plaid shirts and cowboy boots enthusiastically making out on the dance floor that Connor finally gets it. They're lesbians. She’s in a lesbian bar on Valentine’s Day.   _ Shit _ .  
  
She should leave.  Being harassed by fans is one thing, but all it’ll take here is for one person to recognise her, take her picture and tweet that they saw her in a gay bar and it’ll be all over twitter within hours.  She’s not ashamed of...of whatever orientation she is, but that doesn’t mean she wants to be asked about it in every interview for the rest of her life.  
  
She should just leave, but getting up when she’s only just sat down might draw attention.  Okay.  This is fine, no need to panic.  Just stay where you are for a couple of songs, keep your head down, and then you can go.  
  
The legal drinking age in the States completely slips Connor’s mind until she looks at the drinks menu for something to occupy her attention and her heart sinks.  This was a terrible idea.  She should’ve just stayed in the hotel and resigned herself to watching whatever terrible rom com she could find on TV and going to bed early.  
  
She wishes Dylan were here.  If the Yotes management weren’t such assholes she’d have someone to laugh about it with.  She glances up at the women in the cowboy boots, who are still going at it like their lives depend on it, and flushes at a very different thought about being here with Dylan.  
  
She’s just about to give up on her waiting it out plan and leave right now when someone walks right up to her booth, casting a shadow over the drinks menu in her hand.  Connor looks up automatically.  
  
“You look lonely,” the woman says, cocking her hip.  She’s probably only a year or two older than Connor, with long shiny hair falling in russet coloured waves over one shoulder and very white, American teeth.  She’s wearing a literal actual cowboy hat, although it’s pink with little rhinestones on it so Connor’s not sure it counts.  “I hope you haven’t been stood up on Valentine’s Day.”  
  
“Oh,” Connor says.  “Um, no.”  Well, not exactly, anyway.  “Just in town on...uh...business.  Thought I’d do some sight seeing.”  
  
She doesn’t realise it sounds like a line until she’s already said it, and then blushes.  It’d be a good line if she’d done it on purpose, though; the rhinestone cowgirl is extremely pretty.  
  
“Aw,” she says.  “I bet you’ve got a lonely girlfriend back home missing you, huh?”  
  
Connor hasn’t ever really done this before, but she can tell when she’s being flirted with.  It’s nice, nicer than it is when guys do it.  And she  _ is _ lonely, and she’s also never going to come to this bar or see this woman again.  So...why not enjoy it?  
  
“No,” she says, smiling slightly.  “No girlfriend.”  
  
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all night,” the woman tells her, showing all her teeth as she slides into the booth.  
  
Her name is Amy, and she’s friendly and easily flirtatious, like there’s not an awkward or self-conscious bone in her entire body.  She doesn’t pry about the “business” Connor’s in town for, seems content to keep the conversation fluffy and pointless, and when she goes to the bar to refill her weird cocktail she comes back with a beer for Connor as well, which nicely sidesteps the ID problem.  Connor briefly imagines the headline -  _ McDavid arrested for underage drinking in Arizona lesbian bar! _ \- but tells her brain to shut up.  It’s okay to live a little.  
  
“You probably work out all the time, huh?” Amy says, leaning in close and giving Connor a very blatant once over under her long eyelashes.  
  
“Um,” Connor laughs.  “A bit.  Are you into sports at all?”  
  
“Oh God no,” she says, making a face.  “Sorry.  I’m kind of an indoor girl.”  
  
You don’t get much more indoor than pro hockey, but Connor doesn’t bother to enlighten her.  “That’s okay,” she says, smiling.  “The details probably aren’t that interesting anyway.”  
  
“Ugh, you're so  _ cute _ ,” Amy says, wrinkling her nose, and then laughs so Connor knows it's a compliment.  
  
She doesn't really get that often. She gets  _ hot  _ sometimes, from people who’re really talking about her hockey, but not  _ cute _ . It's silly, but it makes her blush.  
  
“Um. Thank you,” she says awkwardly. “So’re you.”  
  
Amy puts a warm hand on her knee and says, “Do you wanna get out of here?” and Connor probably shouldn't, it goes against all her rules, but this isn't really a hockey town and despite all her anxiety about being recognised nobody’s looked twice at her since she got here. Amy doesn't even know her last name.  
  
She hears Dylan’s voice in her head saying  _ you don't always have to be McWonder Woman _ , and feels a laugh bubbling up in her throat even as she wishes she hadn’t thought of Dylan at a time lIke this. For a moment she wonders what it would be like if she was here, if Dylan was the one looking at Connor like that and stroking her leg with her thumb and saying  _ wanna get out of here? _  Then she lays her hand over Amy’s on her knee and says “Let’s go.”  
  
Amy kisses her in the back of the uber back to her place, and she tastes like coconut rum and lipstick, waxy and weird but nice too.  She’s got a housemate, who doesn’t move from the chair in front of the TV when they tiptoe giggling through the living room, although he does give Connor a weird look.  Probably not one of recognition, she tells her jackhammering heart; he’s just annoyed at being interrupted.  It’s still a relief to get into the privacy of Amy’s bedroom, all softly lit with fairy lights and a blue silk scarf over the bedside lamp and not a single hockey poster on any of the walls.  
  
“You've got gorgeous hands,” Amy tells her, and kisses Connor’s palm, leaving a smear of pink lipstick behind. Connor laughs. “What’s so funny?”  She just shakes her head, doesn’t know how to explain how weird it feels to hear that in such a new way.    
  
Good weird, though, just like it’s good weird when Amy tosses her pink hat aside and shimmies out of her jeans, leaving them in a puddle on the floor so she can tug Connor’s shirt off over her head.  She’s so  _ soft _ all over in a way Connor just isn’t, and she laughs and smiles and pushes her around even though she’s kind of tiny.  She seems to find Connor’s body as fascinating as Connor finds hers, running light fingers over the muscles of her back and the fading scar on her collarbone, and she doesn’t seem to notice or care that Connor’s borderline overwhelmed, hardly knowing what to do with her hands.  
  
Once Amy’s asleep, Connor stares at the ceiling for a long time. She imagines waking up here in the morning and meeting Amy’s housemate, maybe taking her out for breakfast before she has to get back to the hotel to catch the bus to the airport. For a moment she lets herself wonder what it would be like to be a truly anonymous nobody, to have nobody know or care what she did with her life.  
  
Then she gets out of Amy-no-last-name’s bed with the fairy lights and silk flowers twisted around the headboard and puts her clothes back on in the dark as quietly as she can. She can't find the hat she was wearing when she got here, so she leaves it behind, along with a note.

 

_Dear Amy,  
  
__Thank you for a lovely evening._ _  
__You made me feel welcome in a strange city and I won’t forget it,  
__I’m sorry I had to leave so soon._ _  
__Happy Valentine’s Day!  
_    
_-C_

 

She hesitates a moment before adding three hasty little X-es under her initial.  It feels dorky, but maybe it’ll soften the rudeness of sneaking out before Amy wakes up.  She hopes so, anyway.  
  
Her hotel’s not that far, so she decides to walk, kind of wishing she still had a hat.  Arizona’s got nowhere near the bite of an Albertan winter but it’s still cold after dark, and it’s a windy night.  She checks the route on her phone and then, on a whim, takes a snap of her hair blowing all over her face and sends it to Dylan:  _ shoulda worn a hat  _   
  
She’s expecting Dylan to be asleep, but a reply notification pops up a few seconds later.  
  
**@kindofabigdyl  
** _ Ur out late. Big night? _

**@cmd97  
**_Sort of  
__I kinda just hooked up with someone_  

She types out another message, takes a deep breath and then hits send before she can talk herself out of it.

**@cmd97  
** _ I met a girl in a bar _

There’s a pause that probably only lasts a few minutes but it feels like hours.  Connor actually stops dead in the middle of the street staring at her phone, willing it to offer up some kind of answer.  Maybe Dylan’s gone back to sleep.  Eventually she sees her typing a reply, typing for what feels like an awfully long time, and then finally the response comes through. 

**@kindofabigdyl  
**_That’s new?  
  
_ Connor blinks.  That’s _new_?  With a question mark?  What does that even mean?  

**@cmd97  
** _ Not that new. _

It’s a weird, peevish reply with too much room for interpretation, and she regrets it as soon as she’s sent it, but then the read notification pops up and, well, it’s too late to take back now.  Connor shoves her phone and her hands into her pockets and walks faster, ducking her head.  She doesn’t know what response she wanted or expected.   _ Oh my God, you like girls?  Me too!  We should date! _  That sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life.  
  
She’s back at the hotel before she gets another reply, and she almost can’t bring herself to read it.  Somehow she thought telling Dylan she isn’t straight would be...different.  Bigger.  That it would change something, or feel like a relief.  When she gets into her cold hotel bed and finally opens up the message, all she feels is numb.

**@kindofabigdyl  
** _ Guess you really don’t tell me everything _

 

*

 

It’s sort of an experiment, sort of a test, but she knows it’s kind of stupid before it even happens.  Once, even twice could just be a mistake. Three times was a really big, stupid mistake. By four, it's becoming a habit.  
  
Connor is lying on her back, skin-to-skin with Jack Fucking Eichel  _ again _ , trying to work out if this habit is more like biting your nails or doing crack on the self-destructiveness scale, when he does something totally surreal.  He looks down at her with a weird expression on his face, like he’s trying to work something out, before ducking his head and kissing her.  
  
That's new. And it feels...  
  
“Jack,” Connor says. She can't remember if she's ever called him by his first name when they’ve been...like this before, but it seems appropriate this time. “Jack, I’m a lesbian.”  
  
She’s definitely never said  _ that _ out loud, to anyone. Wasn’t even sure of it herself until just this moment; she was still wondering if maybe the problem wasn’t that Jack’s a guy, just that he’s  _ Jack _ .  But as soon as she says it she knows it’s true.  Connor McDavid’s boy experiment has failed.  It seems a little weird that the first person she’s telling is a guy who’s just kissed her, while she’s naked in his bed, but here they are.  
  
“Oh thank God,” he says, which isn't exactly the response she expected, to be honest. He rolls off her and flops onto the other side of the bed.  “Me too. Well not a lesbian, obviously, but I’m...not into girls.”  
  
Connor stares at him.  
  
“No offence,” he deadpans belatedly.  
  
“You’re not…” she blinks.  “What did you kiss me for, then?”  
  
He does the facial equivalent of a shrug. “I was just checking.”  
  
Connor can't help herself; she laughs. Not just a small chuckle, either, she laughs until she’s doubled over with it, has to press her face into the pillow because she’s got tears in her eyes.  
  
“It's not that funny,” says Jack, a little irritably.  
  
“Sure it is,” Connor giggles. “We’ve been hate-fucking since June and we’re both gay. I’m sorry, that's hilarious.”  
  
“I don't  _ hate _ you,” he frowns.  But when she raises her eyebrows at him, he cracks a small smile. “Only professionally.”  
  
“Did Mitch Marner really blow you in the washroom when we all did that trip to the Everglades?” she asks, because she just has to know. Jack turns violently red, which is probably an answer in itself, and Connor laughs some more; she wonders if he was still worrying about alligators and snakes while it happened.  
  
“Shut up,” he says.  “I owe Hanny a hundred bucks because of you, now. He bet me back at the draft that you and Strome hooked up in juniors.”  
  
Connor’s laughter dies in her throat.  
  
“No,” she says flatly, turning away.  “You don't owe him anything.”

 

*

 

> **McDavid speaks out in support of US women’s world championship boycott  
>  ** _ 16 March 2017  
>    
>  _ Members of the US women’s national hockey team announced on Wednesday that they will boycott the International Ice Hockey Federation (IIHF) World Championship to be held in Michigan later this month, due to a breakdown in negotiations with governing body USA Hockey.  In solidarity with this announcement, Edmonton Oilers captain Connor McDavid of the National Hockey League today shared the team’s statement on Twitter along with her own words: “I stand with USNWT #BeBoldForChange”  
>    
>  “We’re all trying to do the same thing, and that’s play world class hockey,” said McDavid (20) when I contacted her to ask about this unprecedented public comment on the turbulent state of women’s hockey.  “I’ve chosen to do that in the NHL but I absolutely support the women’s game and other players who are trying to improve conditions for women athletes and girls coming up in the sport.”  
>    
>  McDavid made history in 2015 when she became the first woman to be selected in an NHL entry draft, along with OHL teammate Dylan Strome (currently captain of McDavid’s old junior team the Erie Otters).  McDavid has gone from strength to strength in the NHL despite missing 37 games in her rookie season due to injury.  In October she was named captain of the Edmonton Oilers, making her not only the first woman to take on a captaincy role but also the youngest person to do so in NHL history.  She currently leads the league in points and is an early favourite for the Art Ross and Hart trophies for 2017.  
>    
>  There’s no question that McDavid is an exceptional athlete, all consideration of her gender aside.  But so far in her meteoric career she has been silent on the topic of women’s hockey, choosing instead to focus on breaking into the men’s game, which has drawn criticism from some proponents of women’s sport.  When asked why she has chosen now to speak up, in support of a rival national team no less, she said simply that she thinks they are making an important stand for all female athletes.  
>    
>  “There’s no reason why a women’s team should be paid less than a men’s team especially when they’ve had more success at the same level of competition,” she said.  
>    
>  As for the USNWT’s claims about the lack of support for girls’ development from USA Hockey, McDavid had this to say: “I’ve had friends and teammates who’ve been through the [US National Team Development Program] and I know it’s an important program for American boys developing their skills and the guys who’ve been through it learned a lot there.  I think it can only improve the game to see similar development programs for girls as well.”  
>    
>  Does McDavid think the boycott improves Canada’s chances at the women’s World Championship? “Of course I’ll be rooting for Team Canada, but I hope USA Hockey will do whatever they can to resolve the strike before the tournament so Team USA can play.  They’re the reigning champions and strong competition only makes the sport better.”  
>    
>  When asked if she thinks a gold medal for Team USA would be the best outcome for women and girls in hockey fighting for better wages and conditions across the board, she laughed.  “I don’t know if I’m willing to go that far,” she said, “but they can have silver.”

**Hilary Knight @HilaryKnight  
** Thanks for having our backs, @cmcdavid97 Not sure about silver though :P #USA #BeBoldForChange  
  
**Meghan Duggan @mduggan10  
** Thanks @cmcdavid97! You better get something silver this year yourself #hercupsizeisstanley

 

*

 

Things have been weird between her and Dylan since Valentine’s Day.  They’ve been in touch a bit, a few texts here and there, a couple of Twitter likes that Connor’s hoarded like treasure.  She tweeted a link to Connor’s interview about the US women’s team with a bunch of heart emojis and #BeBoldForChange and #proud, which may have made Connor tear up a little (it's been an emotional week on Twitter, alright), but she hasn’t called and Connor hasn’t called her either.  They definitely haven’t talked about Connor’s badly mishandled snapchat confession, or Dylan’s kind of shitty reaction to it.  
  
So when she gets to Toronto in March she hasn’t seen Dylan’s face or heard her voice except on Instagram or in her snap story for a month.  It’s not the same.  Connor has the unshakeable feeling she really messed up the whole coming out process, if that's even what that was.  She’d never really done it before; she still doesn’t really know how it’s supposed to go.  She never thought Dylan, of all people, would be weird about it though.  
  
Mitch takes one look at her tense smile after the game and then turns to Auston and says, “Change of plans, can you get a ride with Willy? I’ve got, like, proxy best friend duties.”  
  
“Proxy best friend duties?” Connor repeats helplessly. Mitch is already linking his arm through hers and steering her towards the players’ car park.  
  
“Stromer told me to look after you once she got sent down or else,” he says. “Not that I wouldn't anyway, God knows you won't look after yourself, but you know. A promise is a promise.”  
  
Connor feels, stupidly, as if she might cry.  
  
They go back to Mitch’s condo because trying to find any privacy in Toronto on a hockey night is going to be impossible for the two of them together, and his mom discretely makes herself scarce, which is sweet.  Connor’s a little jealous. Not only does Mitch get to play in their home town, close enough to his family home to just drop in whenever, he has his mom right there whenever he needs her, like a grown up security blanket. Hallsy took pretty good care of her in her rookie year - which feels like a million years ago now, with the C on her jersey and the scars of a major injury already fading - but he barely counts as an adult, and having an actual woman around to ask for advice would have been so different.  Plus Connor’s mom can cook more than Kraft Dinner.  
  
It seems like a silly thing to still be struck by after she’s spent so long fighting to get here but the NHL is...kind of full of dudes.  Plenty of them give great hockey advice and being-a-public-figure advice and whatever, and she’s lucky to have so many incredible people to turn to for that kind of mentorship, but there are some things men just don’t get.  It’s not like she can confide in Wayne Gretzky about trying to shop for a bra with the shoulders of a hockey player.  
  
Just another little way her entry into the league has been a steeper climb than it is for some.  
  
They sit on opposite ends of the couch with their socked feet on the cushions, and Mitch throws a gigantic bag of Doritos at her head, which would probably make her nutritionist faint, but whatever. If Marns doesn't get enough postgame calories into him he’ll probably literally fade away or something.  
  
“So, okay,” he says with his mouth full, once they're both crunching contentedly on chips.  “You don’t hook up with other players because...I don’t know, your career’s too important.  And I mean, that’s fine, whatever.”  
  
Connor rolls her eyes. “Thanks for your seal of approval, Marns,” she says dryly.  
  
“Any time,” he grins.  “And I’m not, like, offended you changed your mind.”  Connor kicks him from across the couch.  “But what I  _ don’t  _ get is why, when you decide you don’t care about how it looks if you sleep around or whatever, the person you decide to throw down with is one, a guy you don’t even like, and B, a guy at  _ all  _ when you’re so obviously super gay.”  
  
Connor freezes.  
  
“You said one and then B,” she says.  “That’s not how lists work.”  
  
“Ughhh,” he says, throwing his head back dramatically. “You’re unbelievable.”  
  
“How do you know about any of that anyway?” Connor pulls her knees up to her chin like a shield.  Is Jack spreading it around or something?  That seems unlikely, given what she knows about him.  Not that she’d use that kind of information as a weapon,  _ God _ , but he might expect her to.   _ Dylan _ wouldn’t have told Mitch, would she?  Connor knows they’re close, but that...that was private.  
  
Mitch gives her a look as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking.  
  
“Matts mentioned the thing with Eichs.  You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.  And I figured the rest out myself.”  
  
Connor purses her lips.  Who knew Auston Matthews was a fucking gossip. She draws herself up as much as she can while sitting sideways on a couch in her socks.  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she says, and her voice comes out too harsh maybe, but she can’t help that.  “Since you’ve obviously decided you know everything.”  
  
Mitch completely ignores her stiffness and licks cheese dust off his fingers. “While we’re on the subject of things I know,” he says, leaning forward.  “Why haven’t you told Stromer you’re in love with her yet?”  
  
He says it so easily, as if he he isn’t just laying bare Connor’s most tightly protected secret.  She clenches her hands into fists in the couch cushions.  
  
“Back off, Marns,” she says.  Her voice is shaking.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Sure I do,” he says, like it’s nothing.  “You’re not denying it, are you?”  
  
“Do you think this is what she meant when she asked you to look out for me?” Connor snaps.  “For you to...to bully me about stuff you don’t even…I can’t just do whatever I want!”  
  
“Dude,” Mitch says, “that’s fucking bullshit.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Connor retorts, bitterness making her both pathetic and mean. “I wouldn't expect you to get it.”  
  
His relentlessly smiley expression slips a little at that.  “Oh sure,” he says, with brittle-edged lightness.  “What would I know about keeping secrets, right?”  
  
She hadn't meant it like that. She meant the girl thing, and the captain thing, and the way the Leafs never seem to forget Mitch is still basically a kid the way the Oilers forgot  _ she _ is the day they offered her the C.  It was still a shitty thing to say, though.  Just because nobody’s out in the league doesn’t mean she’s the only person in it who’s not straight.  
  
“Sorry,” she says quietly.  He shrugs it off.  
  
“It’s cool. But what are you going to do, just ignore how you feel forever? It's been years, Davo.  Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because I’m not. I don't think it's going to go away.”  
  
Connor looks down at her knees and says nothing.  Mitch nudges her ankle with his foot.  
  
“Saying something won't always work out the way you want, believe me I get it,” he says.  “But at least then you’ll know.”  
  
That sounds like it has a story behind it.  Connor kind of wants to ask, but when she looks up Mitch is picking at a rip in his jeans in an introspective kind of way and it makes her feel like she’d be intruding on something.  She gives him a moment, and then asks the question that’s been eating at her for a while.  
  
“Do you two still…”  
  
He looks up, raising his eyebrows at her.  “Would it make a difference?  Kinda hypocritical, given everything.”  Connor makes an annoyed noise and flicks a chip at him, so he shrugs.  “No, actually.  Not  _ my _ idea, if that matters.”  
  
“Oh,” says Connor, feigning disinterest, probably badly if the way he snorts and shakes his head at her is any indication.  “Since when?”  
  
“Februaryish.  Around Valentine’s Day, I think, which is just the  _ nicest _ time to tell someone you don’t want to be bros with benefits any more, by the way.”  
  
Connor swallows.  “Valentine’s Day.”  
  
She doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Dylan wrapped things up with Mitch at around the same time she found out Connor was into girls.  Was it before that conversation or after?  Does she regret it now?  
  
“Sure, rub it in,” Mitch gripes cheerfully, digging into the Doritos again.  “It’s fine.  Not like we get to see each other that much any more, anyway, just hanging out’s kind of better to be honest.  _ I _ haven’t been pining over her since I was seventeen.”  
  
“I’m not  _ pining _ ,” Connor scowls, uncomfortably aware that she is, in fact, the queen of pining.  
  
“Of course you’re not,” Mitch says wryly.  “You’re Connor McDavid, fucking feminist icon or whatever.  You’ve got everything under control.”

 

*

 

Connor’s already feeling sick when she gets half a dozen microphones shoved in her face.  She’s done so much press by this point she could do it in her sleep, could do it with a concussion or a broken leg, probably, she’s that practiced.  But right now she feels like she’s in a carnival funhouse, everything too bright and too loud and kind of nauseating.  
  
“Looked like you had some words for Manning,” one of the reporters says.  “You didn’t like the hit last year or just the stuff earlier in the first period?”  
  
A question like that was inevitable, Connor’s been working out how to answer it since the final horn sounded, but somehow it catches her off guard anyway.  She can feel her face doing something weird without her permission, sees the loaded look that passes between some of the guys crowded around her as the one who asked the question waits patiently for a response.  She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and then forces a laugh.  
  
“You guys know how it is,” she says blandly.  “Things get heated when you’re out there sometimes, that’s just hockey.  I honestly can’t remember who said what but there’s no hard feelings we can’t work out on the ice.”  
  
It sounds weird and fake and hollow to her own ears, but nobody seems to care.  Someone asks another question and everyone moves on; you know McDavid, she’s a boring interview, never talks shit about anyone, not even the guy who cut her rookie season in half.  
  
She makes it through the rest of the scrum, keeps her head up and manages not to throw up on anyone while she goes through her postgame routine more or less on autopilot. It's not until she’s alone in the car on the way home that she starts to shake, has to pull over because her vision is blurring. It takes a few seconds for her to realise she can't see the road because she’s crying.  
  
She brings up the phone contact without really thinking about it and tries to breathe normally while the ringtone chirps out of the car’s hands free system.  
  
“Hey, it's late,” Dylan says after a moment, her voice husky with sleep. She sounds a little annoyed, but she  _ did _ answer the phone.  They haven’t actually spoken in nearly six weeks, but she answered the phone. “Did you just get home?”  
  
Connor tries to apologise, she totally forgot about the time difference, but all that comes out is a shuddery breath.  Another one chases immediately after it, harsh and rasping, and suddenly she can’t get enough air, it’s like there’s something tightening around her chest.  
  
“Davo?” Dylan’s voice is sharper this time, awake and worried. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”  
  
“No,” Connor manages at last, a wheezy little thing.  She grips the steering wheel with both hands until her knuckles turn white, but her lungs seem to be working again for now. “No, I'm...did you watch the game?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Dylan says cautiously.  “I did.  You and Manning got into it a bit, huh?”  
  
“He said…” Connor closes her eyes, trying to block out the nauseating sweep of passing headlights across her face. “He did it on purpose. Last year. My injury.”  
  
“ _ What? _ ”  
  
“That's what he said tonight.”  
  
“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Dylan hisses, a little quieter. God, it must be almost two in the morning in Erie, she’s probably trying not to wake the whole house up. “Connor, that's fucked up, what the hell.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You should report him.”  
  
Connor laughs hollowly. “What's the point?” she hiccups. “It's my word against his, and I already came out and told people not to blame him last year.  For all I know he was just talking shit, trying to get under my skin.”  
  
“Do you believe that?”  
  
She bites her lip. “I don't know. People say all kinds of crap out there. Sometimes it's scarier than other times.”  
  
She knows guys say things like that to each other on the ice all the time; threats, warnings, whatever. It's almost always just talk, and most of them just let it roll off them, give as good as they get. It’s not like she never trash talks anyone or can’t handle a chirp.  She’s just not sure any of them realise how different it is to hear that stuff when you're a woman, when you're the  _ only _ woman out there, and some guy is telling you he fucked you up deliberately and he’d do it again, it was that easy.  
  
“Jesus,” Dylan says quietly.  
  
It’s that voice that makes Connor finally calm down, some of the feeling coming back into her body.  She releases her death grip on the steering wheel slowly and takes a long, deep breath.  It helps, knowing there’s someone else who gets it, who doesn’t think she’s weak for getting scared.  
  
“I’m okay,” she says after a minute.  “Thanks.  For picking up, I’m sorry it’s so late.”  
  
“Shut up,” Dylan says, soft.  “You know you can call me any time.”  
  
Connor feels a wave of regret wash over her, hot and guilty.  
  
“I should’ve.  I wish I had earlier.  I’m sorry about last time too,” she says.  “That was the wrong way to tell you.”  
  
“Tell me…” Dylan sounds confused for a moment, and then catches up.  “Oh.  No, hey, I’m the one who should be sorry.  I was a dick.”  
  
“You weren’t,” Connor says, shaking her head even though Dylan can’t see her, and even though she kind of was.  It doesn’t seem that important any more.  “I shouldn’t’ve blindsided you like that.”  
  
“It wasn’t about...you should get to tell people stuff like that at your own pace,” Dylan says.  “I hope you didn’t think I...that it bothered me or anything.  I’m glad you told me, I’m happy for you.  I shouldn’t have made it about me.”  
  
She always talks too fast when she’s nervous, trips over phrases like she can’t form the words as fast as her brain is going.  It’s weirdly reassuring to hear her stumble right now.  
  
Now’s the part where Connor could say:  _ it  _ is _ about you, though.  Everything’s about you _ .  But that’s definitely not a conversation to have over the phone, with two hours’ time difference and three thousand kilometres between them.  Soon, though.  Mitch is right, it’s better to know.  
  
“Will you stay on the phone?” she says instead.  “Just until I get home?”  
  
Dylan sounds relieved when she answers, as if she was holding her breath.  “Of course, bud.  I might fall asleep though, it’s like two thirty here.”  
  
“That’s okay,” Connor says, starting the engine.  “I just like knowing you’re there.”

 

*

 

It’s been a long season, but not as long as she wanted it to be.  Of course the day after the Oilers’ postseason ends the Otters become OHL champions, so at least something good happens that week.  She sends Dylan a dumb gif of a sea otter dunking a ball through a tiny basketball hoop (there are a lot of amazing otter gifs, but no hockey ones) and Dylan sends back the one of two otters holding hands, which makes Connor feel so many things at once she doesn’t know what to do with herself.  
  
She’s gotten tired enough of strangers constantly trying to touch her in airports that when she feels someone yank on her ponytail in tiny Windsor International she lets her nice public face slip for just a fraction of a second as she’s turning around.  
  
“Yikes,” says Dylan, grinning. “What kind of welcome is that? I brought you coffee and everything.”  
  
She almost spills it all over both of them when Connor launches herself at her, flinging her arms around Dylan’s neck.  
  
“You're here,” Dylan squeaks in her ear, hugging her around the waist with one arm while holding the tray of coffees safely aloft with the other.  
  
“ _ You're _ here,” Connor says back, squeezing hard. “Your hair looks awful.”  
  
“Hey, at least I don't have a beard,” Dylan laughs. “You should see some of the guys.  Anyway, you're just jealous because you've never been to the Memmer.”    
  
She’s being self deprecating, but she’s not  _ wrong _ .  It’s not like Connor would really give up anything from the last two years to be going through this week with Dylan, even if her own postseason is over too soon, but there’s a wistful nostalgia about being here anyway.  
  
“I’m so proud of you,” Connor tells her seriously, and Dylan looks startled for a second before her face creases into a smile.  
  
“You sap.  Are you kidding?” she laughs. “Have you seen your season, Ms Art Ross? God, they’re gonna write you a blank check when you re-sign. I’m seriously considering giving up hockey to be your trophy wife.”  
  
It’s such a small thing, an offhand joke, but hearing her acknowledge so casually that Connor might want a  _ wife _ feels like a little firework going off in Connor’s chest.  Even though it doesn’t mean anything, it means everything;  _ I see you, I know you, I like who you are _ .  
  
“Not with that hair,” Connor tells her, smiling so hard it makes her face hurt.  She’s so happy it feels like she might literally explode.  
  
“I don't know,” Dylan teases, “I thought I might keep it like this if we win. Don't you think it suits me?”  
  
“You're practically  _ orange _ .”  
  
“Well, we can't all be blonde bombshells,” Dylan sighs, tugging on Connor’s ponytail again.  “Anyway, orange hair will be perfect when I’m an Oilers WAG.”  She hooks her arm around Connor’s neck and walks her towards the baggage claim as Connor loops her own arm around Dylan’s waist.  It's awkward walking with their arms around each other, their hips bumping together on every other step, but Connor never wants to let go.  
  
She has to eventually, when they get to the luggage pickup and she needs both hands to hold her bag and her coffee.  But they lean against the wall side by side and Dylan stands close enough that their shoulders are touching, and it’s almost as good.  
  
“Hey, Dyls,” she says after a moment.  “Not that I’m not happy you’re here, but how  _ are _ you here?  Don’t you, uh.  Have shit to do today?”  
  
Dylan makes a face.  “Yeah, I probably shouldn't stay,” she admits.  “But Brinksy’s covering for me.  I didn’t want to wait to see you.”  
  
She says it so casually, too, like she’s not basically reaching into Connor’s chest and squeezing her heart in both hands.  And it’s not...it’s probably not the best time, and it’s definitely not the best place, but if she waits for the perfect moment to say something she’s going to be waiting forever.  She suddenly doesn’t want to wait another second.  
  
“Hey,” Connor says softly, bumping Dylan’s shoulder with her own.  “I need to tell you something.”  
  
Dylan looks at her, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows.  “Everything okay?”  
  
Connor nods.  “Yeah, it’s not a bad something.  Well, I don’t think so.  Just…”  
  
Dylan’s phone goes off, shrill and startling, and Connor jumps.  Dylan makes an apologetic face and answers the call, which is Brinksy reporting that his distraction tactics have failed and Dylan needs to get her ass back to the hotel before the bus leaves or she’s in deep shit.  
  
“Gotta go,” she says, pulling Connor in for one last quick hug and kissing her on the cheek.  “Wish me luck, eh?”  
  
“You don’t need it,” Connor tells her.  “I’ll see you after the game.”  Dylan’s answering smile is like a ray of sunshine just for her.  She’s definitely going to tell her tonight.  She just has to.  
  
“Score a goal for me,” she calls after her.  Dylan turns even while she’s walking away and shouts back.  
  
“I’ll make it a hatty!  Just for you.”

 

*

 

She does better than that.  Not only does Dylan score  _ four _ goals, she breaks the record for number of points scored by one player in a Memorial Cup game.  Connor’s up in a private box supposedly being all mature and dignified but after the hatty she loses all pretense of being a cool grown up hockey superstar and jumps up and down screaming like an idiot. That's her  _ girl _ down there. That's her  _ team _ , her  _ family _ .  
  
She goes down to the Otters locker room after the game and she can hear them from halfway down the corridor like they’ve won the Mem Cup already.  When she gets inside Dylan launches herself at her, still in underarmour and her sports bra, stupid yellow hair coming down out of her braid, and yells incoherent joy right in her ear:  _ You’re here! _ and  _ Did you see that?  Did you fucking see that?? _ She’s loud and sweaty and gross and she smells like a hockey player and Connor wants more than anything to kiss her, right there in the locker room in front of everybody.  
  
“You’re sticking around, right?” Dylan says, keeping an arm around her neck like she thinks Connor will disappear if she doesn’t hang on to her.  “I’ve got to do post game stuff first, but we can go back to the hotel after that?”  
  
“Of course,” Connor grins.  She’s only here for one night.  If Dylan thought she was going to spend a second less of it with her than she absolutely has to then she’s crazy.  Dylan beams at her.  
  
“Hear that, boys?” yells Brinksy.  “Party in the captain’s room!”  
  
A cheer goes up and totally drowns out Dylan’s protests, because they’d probably cheer for anything at this point, but Connor can’t bring herself to mind.  They’re so  _ happy _ .  She cheers too, because she knows that giddy, invincible feeling and it’s catching, and Dylan laughs at her and rolls her eyes.  
  
“Alright you fuckers,” she shouts to the room, planting her hands on her hips.  “But I’m kicking you all out at ten!”  
  
It’s pretty chill as room parties go; everyone’s exhausted and they’ve still got more hockey to play, so after the first twenty minutes or so of excited yelling it’s mostly piles of loose-limbed boys talking shit and trying not to fall asleep on each other.  Connor missed this.  It’s not like the Oilers aren’t friendly, affectionate even, and she loves them.  But it’s really not the same as all being kids together.  
  
Connor talks to the guys she knows and tries to be nice to the younger ones who are a little starstruck over her being there, or making  _ very _ ill-advised attempts to hit on her.  Dylan’s doing her captain thing and checking in with everyone, but she drifts back to her every so often to ruffle Connor’s hair or tell some posturing kid to leave her alone, the  _ reigning NHL scoring champion _ may be too nice for her own good, but she doesn't care about your fifty point season, fuck off.  Every time she mentions the Art Ross to someone, which seems to be every second sentence, like they’re not all NHL fans and they don’t all know about it already, like Dylan doesn’t have her  _ own _ achievements to spotlight tonight, she glows with pride as if she made Connor herself.  
  
Maybe she did, in a way.  Part of her, anyway.  The blazing look she gives Connor when anyone praises her makes Connor feel lightheaded, the part of her that belongs to Dylan all lit up with happiness.  
  
It's a pretty big part, honestly.  
  
Eventually the talk winds down and Dylan starts ushering yawning Otters off to their own rooms.  Then she flops onto the bed where Connor’s sitting against the headboard and puts her head in her lap.  
  
“You’re amazing,” Connor tells her, stroking her hair.  “How are you feeling?”  Dylan makes a pleased humming sound and closes her eyes.  
  
“Good,” she says.  “Tired.  You?”  
  
“Sorry I have to leave tomorrow,” Connor says honestly.  “I want to stay and watch you win the whole thing.”  Actually she just wants to stay right here in this exact spot forever.  Dylan makes a disgruntled noise, like:  _ don’t jinx it _ , or maybe  _ don’t remind me _ .  
  
“What were you going to tell me?”  
  
Connor looks down and Dylan’s tipped her head back to look up at her, upside down.  Her cheeks are flushed from the overly warm room, eyes sleepy and heavy-lidded, and her mouth looks pink and soft and unbearably kissable.  Connor just stares at her, slightly dazed, until she raises her eyebrows and her lips curl into an amused little smile.  
  
“What?” Connor says blankly.  
  
“This morning,” Dylan prompts. “You said you needed to tell me something.”  
  
“Oh,” says Connor.  Her whole body is singing _ I love you, you’re so beautiful, kiss me or I’m going to die _ , so loud she can’t believe it’s not audible to everyone within a ten kilometre radius.  “I...can't remember.”  
  
“Can’t’ve been that important, I guess,” Dylan smiles drowsily.  
  
“Nah.” says Connor, twining her fingers through Dylan’s hair.  “Guess not.”

 

*

 

She doesn’t get to stay and watch them win the whole thing, because she has to go film a stupid commercial (although if fifteen-year-old rookie Connor could hear her complaining about  _ having to film a commercial _ she would lose her shit), and then it’s even worse because they don’t win.  
  
Watching Dylan cry on the ice even from her tiny iPad screen is heartbreaking.  Seeing her on facetime hours later, looking tired and defeated and horribly small kind of makes Connor feel like crying as well.  It wasn’t all that long ago when every time they lost, they were at least losing together, and the memory and the distance makes her chest ache.  
  
“You were MVP,” Connor reminds her.  “Not some guy from the Spits,  _ you _ .  They were rested and you guys still made them work for it.  You can’t take responsibility for the whole team.”  Connor would know; if anyone’s tried to do that this year, it’s her.  “The Yotes know that.  They’re going to be ready for you this year.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dylan says.  She looks away, picks listlessly at the comforter on her hotel bed.  “I didn’t mention it before, but some of the women’s teams have been in touch.  Canadiennes.  Riveters.”  She pauses for the tiniest heartbeat of hesitation and looks up.  “Inferno.”  
  
Connor swallows.  “You don’t want to move to Montreal,” she says.  “Your French is terrible.”  
  
“ _ Connor. _ ”  
  
“Don’t,” Connor says, shaking her head.  “Wait a little while before you start talking like that.  You’re upset and I get it, but you can’t just...give up now.”  
  
“Playing with women isn't  _ giving up _ , Davo,” Dylan says, frowning.  
  
“I didn't mean it like that.”  
  
“I’m not you,” she says, defensive. “I’m good but I’m not amazing, and maybe just good isn't enough for the show when I’m a girl as well.”  
  
“You  _ are _ amazing,” Connor tells her, and she means it, but on top of that the idea of being alone in the NHL forever makes her feel like she’s suffocating.  She sees the headlines from last year in the back of her mind:  _ Has the NHL’s equality experiment failed?  Five men and no women share their very important male opinions. _  Even having Dylan as near as Calgary wouldn’t be enough to make that grate any less.  
  
As far as she knows no girls even asked to be considered for the draft last year, and she hasn’t heard about any this year either.  The rules haven’t officially changed; she’s still an exception, an experiment.  Every time the topic of letting more girls into the draft comes up, the old boys’ club of analysts and experts say the same thing: sure, you might get another McDavid, but what if you waste your first round pick on stunt-drafting a girl and you wind up with another total bust like Strome?  Which one’s more likely?  
  
It makes her want to  _ hurt  _ people.  She doesn’t want to be extra impressive because she’s  _ only _ a woman.  She doesn’t want to be a special case, only allowed to play by the continued good graces of the NHL as long as she stays twice as good as any of the men. But most of all she doesn’t want Dylan to think for even a second that she’s not good enough for  _ anything _ .  
  
Dylan sighs.  “I’m already committed, so we’ll see how camp goes,” she says. “I’m just keeping my options open, that's all. I don't want to be in limbo forever.”    
  
Connor hates her commitments, hates doing commercials, hates everything that means she can't be there in person to wrap her arms around Dylan right now and squeeze the sadness and self-doubt right out of her.  
  
“It’ll be great,” she tells her instead, with all the enthusiasm she can muster, like she can will Dylan to believe it. “You’ve worked so hard this year.  They're gonna love you.”

 

*

 

Summer’s supposed to be her time off, but it isn’t really.  She gets a little time here and there, but mostly she’s rushing around all over the place doing appearances, training, fulfilling endorsement commitments, all interspersed with phone calls with her agent about her upcoming contract negotiations.  She manages to block out a week in mid-june to go home and visit her family before they all head down to Vegas for the NHL Awards, and when she closes the door to her childhood bedroom and flings herself onto the single bed it feels like the first moment of quiet she’s had since the season ended.  
  
It feels so small now, this room.  On the one hand it’s like no time has passed at all, and on the other it feels like she’s a completely different person from the kid who taped up those Sidney Crosby and Hayley Wickenheiser posters and picked out those curtains in just the right shade of Leafs blue.  She knows both of them now, has their private numbers in her phone.  One of her best friends is an actual Leaf.  If she thinks about it too hard it makes her head spin, the idea that she and the little girl whose mind would be completely blown by the position she’s in now are one and the same.  
  
She hears the doorbell ring downstairs and ignores it.  Hardly anyone knows she’s here, and she’s content for it to stay that way for the time being.  Later tonight she’ll go downstairs and spend some time with her parents, maybe Cam will come round for dinner, it’ll be lovely.  But for now she’s just enjoying the solitude.  
  
The knock on her bedroom door a couple of minutes later comes as a surprise.  Probably just her mom checking if she wants to have tea with some neighbour who noticed her car in the driveway.  
  
“Come in,” she calls, without bothering to move.  
  
It’s not her mom.  
  
“Hey,” Dylan says, hovering in the doorway. “No, don't get up. I know you're doing, like, family time. I just...have something I need to say, and then I'll go.”  
  
Connor props herself up on her elbows, the pleasure of seeing Dylan here at home curdling suddenly in her stomach. She looks so uncomfortable, like she doesn't belong here, even though she’s always belonged here. She belongs wherever Connor is, wherever home is.This is it, then. This is when she says she’s decided to give up on the NHL altogether.  She’s pulled out of Yotes prospect camp and she’s moving to...to Montreal to be a Canadienne.  Or to China to join that new CHL outreach team.  This is the big apologetic farewell scene.    
  
Well, as heartbreaking as it is, Connor’s just going to have to suck it up and be supportive.  Oh God, she hopes she’s not moving to _China_.  Connor sets her jaw, looks Dylan in the eye and says, very seriously: “You can tell me anything.”  
  
Dylan’s answering smile is a little lopsided but genuinely warm.  “I know,” she says.  She closes the door but stays standing uncertainly in front of it, like she’s not sure what to do with herself.  It makes Connor’s chest ache, and she hasn’t even said anything yet.  
  
“I feel kind of dumb making this a whole big thing,” she says, shuffling her feet awkwardly, “but it felt too important to just say over the phone, you know?”  
  
Connor nods. It's going to be rough pretending to be happy for Dylan when she says she’s got the Yotes to release her to the Furies and she’s staying in Toronto, or whichever city is lucky enough to have her, but it's better to hear it in person. It means something, knowing that Dylan cares enough to give her that much.  
  
“Okay,” Dylan says, as if she’s steeling herself. “You're my best friend.  You’ve been there for the hardest, the best, the most important times of my life and you’re...I wouldn't have got through some of this shit without you. I definitely wouldn't have got through the end of last year without you reminding me I could.”  
  
She looks down at her feet.  Connor wants to hug her, or shake her and say she didn’t need Connor to do any of that, her achievements are _hers_.  But then she doesn’t know if she would have got through some things without Dylan either.  God, her heart feels so full it _hurts_.  
  
“I love you,” Dylan says, and Connor’s heart flips over in her chest, even though she knows it doesn't mean what she wants it to mean. “You're my favourite person. I don't know what I'd do or where I’d be without you.”  
  
She looks up, and Connor braces herself for the big announcement, gets ready to smile and say _that's great, buddy, I’m so happy for you_. Dylan takes a deep breath.  
  
“So that’s all I wanted to say,” she says. “You don’t have to...do anything with that, I just.  I just wanted you to know. I’m in love with you.”  
  
It’s like someone’s grabbed Connor by the ankles and abruptly turned her upside down.  
  
“What?” she sits bolt upright.  “ _No_.”  
  
Dylan flinches.  “No?”  
  
“No, no, wait, I didn’t mean...not _no_ ,” Connor says hurriedly, scrambling off the bed.  “I just meant...I was supposed to tell _you_ that.”  
  
Dylan just stares at her, bewildered.  Connor realises she probably sounds crazy, but she can’t help it; now the shock of what she’s just heard is passing and _what she’s just heard_ is filtering through to her brain, and she’s smiling so hard her whole face hurts.  
  
“You love me?” she says, half laughing.  “You _love_ me.  I love _you_.  I’ve been trying to work out how to tell you for...for like two years.”  
  
She gets most of the way across the room without even realising she’s moving and then stops, not sure what to do next. Dylan’s just gaping at her, speechless.  When she finally finds her voice it’s practically a whisper.  
  
“You mean when you came to Windsor you…” Connor nods, and then she laughs, because it's so _stupid_.  Dylan lying in her lap, and wanting nothing more than to kiss her, and the whole time...  “Oh my God,” says Dylan, slumping against the door.  “Oh my God, I felt like such an idiot, saying I wanted to be your _trophy wife_ and acting all weird and hanging all over you, and you...  Oh my _God_.”  
  
Connor feels lightheaded, laughter bubbling up in her like there’s too many feelings happening at once for her body to contain it all.  She reaches for Dylan and catches one hand then the other, pulling her gently away from the door. Dylan goes easily, still blinking like she hardly knows what's going on.  
  
“Holy shit,” she says.  
  
“Holy shit,” Connor agrees.  “I really fucking love you.”  
  
Dylan laughs.  “I’m onto you,” she says.  “You just want to lock down a trophy wife now so you’re all ready to be a millionaire in a couple of years.”  
  
“I mean, technically I’m already a millionaire,” Connor says, grinning.  “Anyway, I think I like you better as a hockey player. Just so you know, though,” she adds seriously, “you would be the Stanley Cup of trophy wives.”  
  
Dylan snorts. “Smooth, Davo.  Wait, does that mean you’re going to try and lift me over your head?” she adds with a  skeptical look.  “Because that sounds dangerous, this is a pretty small room.”  
  
“Hmm.”  Connor pretends to think about it for a moment, a smile tugging at her mouth. She leans in, lowering her voice.  “I think I’ve got a tradition you’ll like more.”  
  
She slides her hand around the back of Dylan’s neck and draws her down just a little so she can press their lips together, soft and careful.  After the amount of her life Connor’s spent wanting to kiss Dylan, thinking about kissing Dylan, imagining what kissing Dylan would be like, actually doing it could turn out to be an anticlimax, but it isn’t.  Dylan laces their fingers together and her lips part and then she’s kissing Connor back, pulling her closer, and Connor’s whole world narrows down to Dylan’s mouth and Dylan’s hands and the sweet familiar smell of rink soap and coconut shampoo.  
  
It's perfect. It's literally perfect.  
  
She opens her eyes slowly, like surfacing from a really good dream she never wants to wake up from.  Dylan’s looking right back at her, all wild hair and dark eyes and soft mouth, and she realises she doesn’t have to wake up at all. This is her actual life. Holy shit is right.  
  
“Not bad, McWonder Woman,” Dylan says, and grins.  “You think Sidney Crosby’s ever kissed the Cup like that?”  
  
Connor giggles, then says solemnly, “I’d put money on it.”  
  
It takes a while to get back to kissing after that.  They’re both laughing too hard.

 

*

 

The sun is coming in low through the open curtains, turning the tumbled sheets into gold and gilding the edges of Dylan’s curls where they brush over Connor’s bare shoulder.  It’s been three days, three beautiful laidback sunlit days, and Connor can still hardly believe this is her life.  It’s too good.  
  
She’s lying on her back toying lazily with one of Dylan’s hands, spreading her fingers out and then letting go to watch them curl loosely into her palm, stroking lightly over her knuckles, lacing and unlacing their fingers together.  She’s always thought Dylan’s hands were beautiful (she’s a hockey player, she’s allowed that one cliche, surely) but now she’s got direct experience of some of the other things those long fingers can do she’s even more of a fan.  
  
“Hey,” Dylan says softly, like she’s afraid to break the spell.  
  
“Mm?” Connor hums, sex-drunk and sleepy.  All her limbs feel heavy and molten in the afternoon sun.  
  
“About the Awards…”  
  
Connor looks up.  They haven’t talked about anything public yet, about who gets to know about this thing between them and how and when.  It’s just theirs right now, and Connor kind of doesn’t want to share, wants to stay in this perfect little bubble forever with just the two of them, endless afternoon.  And yet...  
  
It’s not like all Connor’s concerns about coming out have magically vanished through the healing power of love, or whatever.  But she can’t pretend the idea of walking down the magenta carpet in Vegas hand in hand with Dylan doesn’t excite her almost as much as it terrifies her. She wants this all to herself but at the same time she wants everyone to know they belong to each other.  
  
Dylan sighs.  “I don’t really want to go before I’ve, you know.”  Her mouth twists, uncertain and apologetic.  “Made it.  It feels like jinxing myself.”  
  
Disappointment and relief have a brief tug of war in Connor’s chest before empathy takes over.  She can’t really imagine it; with the incredible two years she’s had in the show, she’s never going to be in anyone else’s shadow ever again.  But she can  _ understand _ ; Dylan wants to make her mark as herself before she’s a plus one to someone else, wants to be sure she’s still got the chance to be invited to the awards on her own merits one day before she resigns herself to just tagging along on Connor’s heels.  
  
“Okay,” Connor says, and leans up to kiss her, clasping their joined hands to her chest.  “That’s okay.  I’ll be your date next year when you win the Calder.”  
  
Dylan laughs.  “We can’t just win all the awards between us,” she grins.  “There’ll be nothing left for the boys.”  
  
Connor kisses her again, because she  _ can _ .  She rolls Dylan over onto her back, loving the way her hair spills over the pillows in a wild, beautiful tangle of curls, and the breathless way she laughs against Connor’s lips.  She doesn’t think any of that will ever, ever get old.  
  
“Just watch us,” she says.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus mood board/aesthetic for this fic [over here on my tumblr](https://lemonicelolly.tumblr.com/post/165176383916/self-indulgent-mood-board-for-my-rule-63women-in) (come say hi!)
> 
> \- After Connor wins ALL THE AWARDS at the 2017 NHL Awards, Dylan steals her phone and changes Sid’s contact name to The Boy Connor McDavid. She doesn't bother changing it back.
> 
> \- Years later when Connor feels comfortable enough to come out, Amy-from-Arizona sees her photo on a queer news site and runs into the kitchen to yell at her housemate: “Do you remember that baby dyke who left me the sweet awkward note and skipped out while I was sleeping that one time? LOOK SHE’S FAMOUS.” The housemate gives her a flat look and says “Um, duh? Her girlfriend’s one of our top centres. Do you NEVER listen to me when I talk about hockey at ALL?”
> 
> \- Jack’s the one who officially comes out first, although Connor and Dylan haven't been subtle (gal pal jokes abound in the fandom). As Dylan says “well, he had to beat you at something”.
> 
> \- There is a story behind Mitch's comment about how saying something doesn't always work out the way you want it to. From…Februaryish.  Around Valentine’s Day, I think. :(
> 
> The USNWT article was written from scratch, but the 2015 Draft coverage is a rewrite of Katie Strang's real article on ESPN, just a few changes made to fit the AU premise. [The original article is here!](http://www.espn.com.au/nhl/story/_/id/13155772/2015-nhl-draft-edmonton-oilers-draft-connor-mcdavid-no-1-overall) The article about the Oilers loss to the Sabres is even less original, just a frankenstein mashup of [these](http://edmontonjournal.com/sports/hockey/nhl/edmonton-oilers/oilers-offence-defence-struggle-in-6-2-loss-to-sabres) [two](http://nationalpost.com/sports/hockey/nhl/edmonton-oilers-lay-an-egg-connor-mcdavid-shows-hes-mortal-in-ugly-loss-to-banged-up-buffalo-sabres/wcm/7a705480-9102-4809-afcc-0edd036c250e) articles with appropriate pronoun changes. Because sports journalism is hard, and I am no sports journalist!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] I Know A Girl by CheapLemonIceLolly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688434) by [Hellspot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellspot/pseuds/Hellspot)




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